iiii* 


B 114 M 





FT MEftOE 

GenCo 1 



M 


h 


y 


ii 


jri*- 

m 

ir»i! 


5 

i 


it 




W 


I 








t 


i I 


V » 




h 5 


lil!!! 


If 


J 



I 



I 


1 








U'.'U'J' 


' ■ , . ■' 'M 


n‘»un 




' *.■ i I •♦I**'**** 


{”!!•*'?! •" - ■!’ 


' •t»»n 


- ' \iitU* ' ' ' ‘>h!KcL: 

jffi 

'iwtSB 

:r;;. ■ :|:e ij; ;13™ 


1 



i «4i1.ir44 





i 




' 

K'' 


lli 


) > 


1 ‘ 


IliU 



I 


i^i 


i 


{ I 


i 


i» it 


rHr'VH':’ 

vMll 





nii’ 

I tii 


1 


> it 


ijilljS 


I 


♦»» 




pi!i 




) 


1 



IH 




IS 



I r 


i 


I 


i 




) 


M;;i 


H 


Ii 




» 


i 


























LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 


Chap..7_Z_2> Copyright No. . 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


1 


•1 


J 





. 

f 




»v 


'■ i; 


• • ? 


' > 






%■ 


-V » 

V 




s . '^ 

I • 

X- 

• • 

/ ' .f 




% ■ k. 


'T. 





**• • 

. % 

» * ♦.* > < 

^ • \ 

r-' . 


cr 




•^ . . .. •, 




- V<f%V 








■ • .A ' \ 

.'^.-■r .V* 


•’ 


r*.%--.v- 


■: V- , •• • 





> ''J •' 
*^» 





k . *- 


ITM' ^ • • 


*- .., 


2»‘ ■ 

■ T' 

r 


• '% 


% > i 

X 

1- /. 

'■«; 



.* - ■ 

•* •% 


• - -^ ■ V* ■ W’V :L 

•Jl- • < 

gr, ^ ■■ , 

• • . .. •• , ‘ ‘ . 

: -■ uk 


/ ■ ' r. T. ,2j,‘ . .^lE^ 

•. ■ ■ ■ ■■• ■ .v: >. bi 





».. . 
■A. 

\ ■ ■ ' 

« 

'• . *. 

• * • ' ^ 
i^^-y : ■ ■ ■ 


’ • t 

•V , ' ■ 

1 r ^ 

. 

^ A 

• f r ' C* i , * 

•• V ■ 

- '• 

» 

iJ: 

1 • ' 

V-. . •• A ^,..’ 




«• 


W *'*■ 

1 ' ' 




N* 



A, 


•A*. 






* ^ 


r. • • 


1^*^' 


■y. " 

4 


« V • • ; < 


-» • , • .'•{ i • 

. ^ /.‘i • *,. 

V,-’. •. /• 

A . * i » 4 


. ' ‘ • 
ip^ *• f'l.** ' 


^ • ' 

« 

"v ■ 






VK • ., 




. - r »*, ^ . , 

\ ‘ i-^ ’ . < 1 , • 

•,' . , . . . . ;y 

. >. " a',, • - -v • ,. ',«*■% ■ ^ -I ’ « 

' m 


f“ • 


7 






(•: 

«v 


..r^ 


/ 


'4V- 


f 

I 





t 


« . 



• X 






*• *>•.•>• :■ 
£,, •/ . *.a.r^ ' i’. » 

: \ i 

. ^ .. v\ . 



• ' f i •■ • ‘ ■ ’ 

■^ '> \. 'V-.'* * '* 

»'r 


-.- iL , . - 

».' - 1 

s 


» V 


V •>,, 

.V-;i 


•-y I 


N 


t* 





; 

• ’ _i 



« 

.;. I 



V, >r 


^i-t . ' '•♦" • .. ^ . . .-,• ' .< • 'W 

s 

» k 


f • 




* f 


<• 


\ ■ 


. • 


• V 









» 


* 

•*i 


♦ « 


-VV^'-rV * 

^ .* ^r. ' I 





i 

t* 


V 

I 


I 


• > 



> 

I 




• 4 

I .; .■ 


• n 

/ ^ 


,. • 'W •; ',^1 




S » 
^ ; 



!' ■ ' ■* -'.>;* '-A*' 

' • .^ 'r-i 

• • • • • • « 1 i 

• * ' T ■/ ^ L JUMft 

-*'» ■ ' ‘ fV . ■ . ■ V. ‘ ,'•' »,TffiLs 


‘ fV . ■ ■ V. ,'•' 

Yyy” --' ^5ir?5j 



1 .'p ■•. [ U* 

iV 

■ ■ 

■ 


* 

«■ < 


i j 


■ . 


/ /'•■••lu 


■ ,/ ': 

' ■ ‘4 


♦ • 


.^rU ..*. 
< *v" 


’w’ 


« 

•• - 


• 4 


f ♦ 


*' .V 


'■4^' 




/* *i, 

m 

% 

4 >, 


A I 


' ■ ■'?’ ■ " ■ '--iy 

» r * '♦• •V*’ ' ‘- 


I » 


^ • 





S 

$ 


' rV 


h 


K f 



SM- 'y^.ir^ 

•■'•'• . •- > ■ -> 

K- • y \ i. t ^ . 


1 ^ ^ . A \ ^ 


•/' fcO , -S* ■‘•'i ’ /- ■;> y • »'‘*’'t'Vi»-‘^ 

A'-i W* ’ 'Vi ... '.i •?// 

1 . 


f’.'NJ' 





.• i. 








•r 


ft » 


V ..»•■ 

; ....-* 


r U’‘ 'J »y 


V ^ ’ ^v^; •■, • . r '.V’V jT ' ‘ 


I '• 



DEC 28' ;OO0 




i. 


si 

• V . t 
i * 




,» 

♦ • 


i’ 


/ 




I 



y 


• . 


k 


I 

A 


ji 
« V 


T' 


3'^ 


11 






' • 'i 


r?V‘ ; >'■' 

1^:. : »' • . 
■t t> * • ■ ^ ■: 

■M ■ • . li r 

fej;v •• --■ ■ 


i^4v 

*y ' r^- 

‘ fl “* 




«* 

1 *^ A 




. *■ 


< 


J 



^ -4’ 

4' . 




. / 




y - • 

- 'r 

« 1 

'J’ 

A'r 

» • . . - 

► ► 



► 

-' r >/. 


^ * • 
'rt • * 

AT' ■ 

• »■ 


( 

9 •■ 


W , 

»» 

c. .', 

<al7-: • 


’ ' i . ' » ■ i** ' 

♦ ‘ '4 ‘ 

. / V ‘ * 







vjr..::* 




•v . 'V ■ 

’ • •'■•..».••’■•' • ,' -.llfj- '1/ 

* . . ' ' ^ ‘ *11 . 

► • *' f » w-‘. - 




• >. 

# ' 


f 

. » 




.r . • ' 


0 


W ,i 

X^Kl 




1 

. t 

I- 


r-- 





^7 


•/ IV* 


^ ;::i ; 




I • ■ i 

> ^ 1 • « 

7 » *' . 




^ » 


h 

?• .•■ 


» »* • 

.U . w 


.* L r 






’--v.yc?^>-.rr '■ ‘ 




4 




B ERNIE 


BABCOCK 


THE MARTYR 

A STORY OF THE 

GREAT REFORM 

. BY 

BERNIE BABCOCK 

Author oi “The Daughter of a Republican" 

A 

ILLUSTKATBD BY PRANK BBARD. 

A 


CBICAOO; 




95359 




Library of Consrosa 

Two Comes Received 

DEC 28 1900 

CoprogMavtr 

U^.%, iC/oo 


No 




.{m 

SECOND COPY 

Oe((Mrarf to 

ORDER DIVISION 
JAN 3 1901 


copyright; 

DICKIE & WOOLLEY 


1900 


CONTENTS 





PREFACE 


CHAPTER I 


“For it was midnight” 


“This is Hell” 


CHAPTER II 


CHAPTER III 
“He is able to deliver thee” 


CHAPTER IV 


“My Percy!” 


CHAPTER V 
“Just as if he were some common soldier” 


CONTENTS— Continued 

CHAPTER VI 

“Don’t let him git me” . . . . 8o 

CHAPTER VII 

“And Emily knows nothing of her father?” . . 94 

CHAPTER VIII 

“My mother loved him” . . . .108 

CHAPTER IX 

“I have found my father” . . . . 12.1 

CHAPTER X 

“In life and in death and in all the great hereafter” . 134 

CHAPTER XI 

“Murder you call it?” .... 147 

CHAPTER XII 

“No man can serve two masters” . . .160 


V 


PREFACE 


To the Patriots of Our Republic; — 

Greeting and congratulations: Like a great 
wave, quivering with sturdy heartbeats and ringing 
out the voice of a great united prayer in its roll, 
the vote for John G. Woolley struck the ear of that 
one political party which is carving on the annals 
of the new century the message of the Great Re- 
form.* 

But while we say “Rejoice!”, even now another 
and yet mightier and more far-reaching wave is 
in the forming; for the work of consecrated effort 
is not marked by the dial of a clock or the days 
that make political campaigns. 

A million men to-day hear the distant reverbera- 
tions of the coming wave and hail its breaking as 
the dawn of a new era; a million more men will be 
hearing it to-morrow. 

In the dark ages the Church sold indulgences. 
In this enlightened age the State sells licenses; and 
the crimes are but different progeny of one parent 
act. We condemn the one; we condemn the other, 
but we have yet to learn that corruption in a po- 
litical party can be no more reformed by a corrupt 
political party than corruption in the Church could 
be reformed by the corrupt Church. 


6 


THE MARTYR. 


As God is our judge and as history is our teller, 
there can be no reform until tne heart of an ani- 
mated crime is stuck, and the dagger was never yet 
plunged by the hand that hid the heart. 

Years have been spent by men of pure hearts and 
noble impulses, trying to cripple the black dragon 
of Intemperance out of existence, but to-day his 
strength is a hundredfold increased as he hides 
and breeds under cover of a Christian Government’s 
consent. 

But an invincible force has spotted him even 
there, and though brewers rave and Bishops lend 
their respectable and far-reaching voices to the 
tumult, calling this force to halt, it cries: “No stop! 
No stay! No peace! until victory perches on the 
banners that blaze with the words, ‘In the name of 
Jesus Christ, our King, the liquor traffic must die!’ ” 

Whether this victory shall be written boldly 
against the page of history in a white line of 
Christian ballots, or whether it shall be traced in 
the thin red line of the martyr’s blood, the unrolled 
scroll reveals not, but the outcome is decreed. 

It has not been given me to be a general in this 
fight, but in my “little corner’’ I have pledged on 
the altar of the cause my truest thought, my best 
endeavor, and my sacred honor. 

Faithfully yours, 

BERNIE BABCOCK. 


CHAPTER I. 


“FOR IT WAS MIDNIGHT.” 

Across a wide and smoothly flowing "'river a 
bridge stretched, connecting the north and south 
sides of a thriving southern city. Upon this bridge 
was a man. ‘ ' 

Midway he stood, and his form was plainly visi- 
ble against the skeleton framework of the long iron 
structure, for it was midnight and the moon was 
at its full. 

From his place upon the bridge the man lo 
out upon the river that stretched between its banks, 
shimmering and curling, with bars and flecks of 
moonlight dancing on its lazy current, until like 
a satin band it disappeared behind a shadowy 
curve. 

A light tower reared its spindling height at no 
great distance, and the empty globes caught the 
light of the moon and waved a pale reflection. 

Here and there upon the face of the water, a tiny 
sparkle bobbed, showing where a flsherman’s jug 
was cast to mark its line of baited hooks. 

Closer to the bridge the frames of two flat-hot- 


8 THE MARTYR, 

tomed river boats hugged the shore, their white 
cabins showing against the cobble-stone landing 
and the lofty buildings higher up the bank, like 
phantom boats. 

If one had been quite near the man upon the 
bridge his appearance might have led to the belief 
that he was a harmless lunatic or a convalescent. 

His clothes were of the latest fashion and best 
material, but they were sadly rumpled and disor- 
dered. His hair was brown and his features un- 
marked by lines of time, but his hand trembled 
like an old man’s, and his face was haggard. 

For a short time the man stood gazing out upon 
the river, but he did not see the jugs, nor the 
empty globes, nor the phantom boats, nor the mot- 
tled, shining current. Perhaps all these made an 
impression, but he stood like one dreaming. 

A few nights back the empty globe above his 
head on the bridge had been blazing with light and 
a million moths and beetles had circled into its 
flame and dropped crisp and lifeless over the bridge 
into the water. 

A faint breeze blew down the river and a little 
rasping sound at his feet drew the man’s atten- 
tion. 

It was made by the outstretched wings of a dead 
beetle passing over the floor, and he watched it 


THE MARTYR. 9 

blow nearer and nearer the edge, and as it fell 
over he leaned far across the railing and looked af- 
ter it, as if measuring the distance. 

In this position he seemed to hesitate for a mo- 
ment, then he straightened himself and presently 
left the bridge with a quicker step than that with 
which he had come upon it. 

That part of the city upon which his back was 
turned was, properly speaking, only an annex 
to the town. 

The round houses and shops of a great railroad 
centered there, with their swarms of employees, and 
that side was also the home of those characters, or- 
dered by the police from the opposite side. Not 
that the south side was free from such resorts, but 
they were “regulated” so as to catch the unwary, 
and all irregularities not covered by a “stand in,” 
fled before the hand of justice to the north side and 
took refuge in some of the many dives and holes 
that infested it. 

The south side was made up of great retail 
stores, public buildings and showy marts, beyond 
which shaded streets led away to gardens and cot- 
tages, and shaven lawns and stately palaces. 

It was toward one of these streets that the man 
on the bridge turned his steps just as the city bells 
pealed out the last quarter before one o’clock. 


10 THE MARTYR. 

While he is hurrying along as best he is able in 
his present condition let us briefly review his past 
life. 

To use his mother’s expression regarding him, 
which none doubted who knew the woman, the 
coming into the world of this man, Theodore 
Wayne, had been an “accident.” 

This mother was one of those women who are 
keenly alive to the interests of society but dead to 
the interests of the race. 

Dating from that day before his birth when she 
became convinced that the functions of nature were 
in her case not to be upset by illegitimate arts, 
she abandoned herself to a spirit, at times rebel- 
lious and at times melancholy. 

When the child at last made his advent into the 
world, he was immediately turned over to the 
tender mercies of a nurse who bathed his head in 
alcohol to make it tough and fed him a weak toddy 
before he was two hours old. 

Because it was accounted a hindrance to the per- 
forming of those obligations she owed society, and 
to her own personal comfort, the baby was brought 
up on the bottle and his nurse soon learned that, if 
she wished her little charge to sleep well, she had 
only to put a few drops of brandy into his milk. 
So it happened that many times while he was still 


THE MARTYR. H 

an infant this child slept the sleep of one intoxicat- 
ed with strong drink. 

As the child grew the amount of liquor used in his 
toddy grew also. On a few occasions an overdose 
was administered with the effect of making him 
sick of it, when for a few days he was cross and 
trying to an exasperating degree. 

When he was three years old he sipped the amber 
liquid from the dinner glasses. 

W’hen he was five he found something in a punch 
bowl that had survived one of his mother’s social 
functions, and of this he drank freely. 

When found he was asleep under the table and 
his sleep lasted unbroken until morning. 

At first his parents laughed. 

Then they threatened to whip him if he got 
drunk, but, modeling their discipline after our civil 
laws, they continued to give him his little glass of 
wine. 

After he started to school and his mind had be- 
come absorbed with other things, he did not care 
for wine regularly and often went without it for 
W’^eeks, when he would drink, as his father said, 
“enough to make up for lost time.” 

He was an unusually bright boy and was ready 
for college while ’ comparatively young. 

Here he won honor and disgrace alternately — 


12 THE MARTYR, 

honor for weeks at a time and then disgrace by a 
couple of days’ debauch; but finally he finished his 
course and in time was graduated a lawyer. 

His mother had died during his school life and 
his fa,ther had amassed the fortune that had ab- 
sorbed his faculties to the exclusion of every pa- 
ternal duty. 

Theodore Wayne was an elegant, weak, nervous, 
handsome, good-hearted man, with a keen brain, 
a silvery tongue and a frail body. 

He had a predisposition to melancholy, and at 
times life seemed only so much of a certain thing 
to be lived and gotten through with; money so 
much of a certain thing to be spent, and the real 
essence of manhood a dream, until he saw Emily 
Travik. Then the melancholy lifted; the world 
took on new colors and life a fresh meaning, for he 
loved her. 

His suit was not without opposition, for from 
the first Colonel Travik opposed the marriage. 

Colonel Travik was a conspicuous pillar in a 
church of great pillars, and he knew that the young 
man aspiring to his daughter’s hand had more than 
once been intoxicated. Colonel Travik was unalter- 
ably opposed to the use of liquors as a rule, though 
his conscience allowed certain dignitaries a dispen- 
sation. 


THE MARTYR. 13 

But Theodore Wayne promised the Colonel’s fair 
daughter, with as solemn a promise as ever a man 
made to a woman, that he would drink no more, 
and she believed he would keep the promise, and 
he believed it himself. So they were married and 
for a time were very happy. 

For six months he kept his promise, but the last 
two were one long struggle, and the struggle ended 
one day when he had gone out of the city on busi- 
ness. In a dingy bedroom of a country town hotel 
he drank until his head seemed on the point of 
bursting and his brain was on fire. 

Then he dispatched a letter to his wife telling her 
that he had been detained and that he was not well, 
after which he gave himself over to his appetite 
and for a week lived like a beast. 

After his debauch he returned to his wife, pale 
and haggard, and she threw her arms around his 
neck and cried against his shoulder because he had 
been ill away from home, for with all her soul she 
believed in him. 

With her head against his heart and her arm 
around his neck, he made a vow another time, a 
mental vow, and expected to keep it. 

For a few months this vow was kept, but for 
weeks before the end he felt his appetite, like a 
fierce, tenacious power, fastening itself upon him; 


14 


THE MARTYR, 
he felt his physical strength giving way under the 
strain and his will power flagging. 

Again he left his office, after dispatching a note 
to his wife, telling her he had been summoned 
from the city on business; but he did not leave the 
city. 

With feverish haste he went to a saloon near by, 
where he swallowed glass after glass and glass af- 
ter glass of liquor; then with his brain whirling 
and his pulse beating madly, hardly knowing where 
he went, he crossed the bridge and lost himself in 
a resort where rooms were let and no questions 
asked. 

Here he drank until his outraged stomach re- 
volted at touch of the poison, then he sank into 
a stupor, broken only at intervals by nervous 
spasms and bouts of more drinking. 

For days his debauch lasted, how many he knew 
not, until one night, pale and worn, he turned his 
face toward home. 

As he paused on the bridge, he remembered that 
it was the anniversary of his wedding night. Then 
a quickened sense of shame took possession of him, 
for he remembered also that there was soon to be 
an event more interesting than an anniversary; and 
a great fear came upon him lest, while he had 
been away, his wife, calling in vain for him, had 
gone through the valley of her suffering alone. 


THE MARTYR. 15 

When he at last came in sight of the house the 
clocks had struck the solitary hour of one. 

A sense of foreboding came upon him. 

He entered hurriedly and with trembling fingers 
fitted the latchkey. 0 

The door swung inward to a dark, lonesome 
house. 

He struck a match and lit a lamp on the hall 
table then hurried to his wife’s sleeping apart- 
ment. 

The door was ajar, and before he entered his 
eager eyes peered ahead, but the bed was in per- 
fect order, smooth and empty. 

For a moment he stood with the lamp in his 
hand and gazed at the white bed; then he put 
the lamp on the dresser, as he did so noticing a 
letter which had been stuck in the corner of the 
mirror. 

With a quick jerk of his heart, he opened it and 
read: 

“My Darling Husband:— I am so uneasy about 
you. I am afraid you are sick again — indeed, I 
am quite sure you are or you would not have left 
me now. I want you, 0 so badly. I am just writ- 
ing this little note so that you will not feel en- 
tirely deserted when you come and find me gone. 
I am going to father’s until you come. I wish 


16 THE MARTYR, 

you were here now. I feel that I can always be 
brave when you are near me. There is some- 
thing else I want to say to you, but I am tired, 
and if I wrote pages, it would all mean that for- 
ever and forever— in life and in death — am 
yours, only yours. Good-by. 

“Emily.’* 

Theodore Wayne held the paper in the light, and 
his hand trembled as he read. Then he raised the 
paper, pressed it against his lips, and made a move 
in the direction of the door, but the crowing of a 
cock in a neighboring yard arrested his steps. 

After thinking the matter over, he determined 
to wait until morning and dropping wearily across 
the bed he fell into a troubled sleep. 

When he awoke the light streamed in under the 
window shade and he hastily began his toilet. This 
was accomplished with much care, for he was natu- 
rally neat and careful in his dress and he wished 
this morning to hide as much as possible the marks 
of his debauch. 

He never visited Colonel Travik and rarely met 
him, but the joy he anticipated in meeting his wife 
crowded all thoughts of his strained relations with 
his father-in-law from his mind. 

As he entered the gate he looked toward the 
porch, rather expecting to see his wife smiling on 


THE MARTYR. 17 

the steps and waiting for him, then, for the first 
time, he noticed the long black streamers that hung 
limp and melancholy by the door side. 

The sight gave him a sudden start, and the spirit 



“THE SIGHT GAVE HIM A SUDDEN START." 


18 THE MARTYR, 

of .foreboding that had come over him when he 
entered his lonely home the night before came up- 
on him again with tenfold force. 

The front door swung noiselessly to his touch and 
the soft carpet gave back no sound to his foot- 
steps. 

Entering the parlor, the only thing he saw was a 
heavily draped casket in the center of the room. 

In the back parlor some persons were speaking 
softly, but he did not notice them nor their speak- 
ing. 

With quick steps he reached the coffin side, then 
with pallid face and riveted eye, like a man trans- 
fixed, he gazed into its depths, for the form rest- 
ing there was the form of Emily — his wife. 

His breath came in gasps, and he pressed his thin 
what seemed a dream, he lifted the glass that 
rested loosely between him and her face, and lean- 
ing far into the casket, spoke her name softly in 
her ear. 

Then he took the still, cold hand in his and 
made a move as if to draw it to his lips, but for 
very stiffness it seemed to pull away from him, as 
the white fingers lay like marble in his trem- 
bling grasp. 

He placed his hand upon her forehead lovingly, 


THE MARTYR. 19 

smoothing back her soft brown hair, and he called 
her name in a choked whisper, but there was no 
response, no blush, no smile, no w^ord. 

The pallor of earthy matter was upon her face. 
Her sweet mouth was set and a suspicion of sad- 
ness traced its corners. 

The speakers in the adjoining room had with- 
drawn, and another person had entered, but Theo- 
dore Wayne had noticed neither until some one 
touched him. 

Turning, he found himself face to face with Col- 
onel Travik, who stood proud and calm, with an air 
lending the impression of forbearance with a cul- 
prit. 

“You are late,” he observed, glancing at the 
casket. 

“When ” 

It was impossible for Theodore Wayne to ask 
the question. Colonel Travik waited calmly, as if ex- 
pecting the words that he knew could not be ut- 
tered. 

“She died on yesterday,” he said, after a painful 
waiting, “whispering your name with her last 
breath. It was hard to have her go away with 
her last wish ungratified, but our utmost search 
for you proved futile.” 

Colonel Travik was very fond of his daughter. 


20 the martyr. 

and there was something like a sob in his throat 
as he spoke, but it passed quickly. 

“Where have you been?” he asked. 

“I have been ill.” 

Colonel Travik stepped in front of him and look- 
ed closely in his pale face. 

“Have you been ill? Was it Illness that kept 
you from the bedside of a loving, dying wife? 
Speak! I do not wish to judge you too harshly.” 

“My God! My God! If I had only known!” 
Theodore Wayne cried in anguish. 

“I understand,” said the father coldly, and with 
the words there came a look of contempt into his 
face, not altogether unnoticed by the suffering hus- 
band. 

Theodore Wayne turned his face once more to the 
casket and after steadying his voice inquired of the 
child. 

“It lives. It is a girl.” The words were spoken 
in a low tone of voice, but without tenderness, and 
the older man added, in the same strange way, 
“Until you have recovered from your predisposi- 
tion to this ‘illness’ that habitually besets you, I 
shall consider it my duty to act as guardian to my 
daughter’s child.” 

Colonel Travik waited half a moment as if ex- 
pecting a reply, then with an air of authority he 


THE MARTYR. 21 

replaced the glass lid on the coffin and left the 
room. 

Like a man staggering from a blow Theodore 
Wayne soon followed him and left the house. 

Once in passing down the street, he thrust his 
hand suddenly against his heart as if to pluck out 
something, but his hand struck his coat and fell 
to his side, and yet the pain was there and with 
each long drawn breath he felt the sharpness of its 
sting. The knife was into his heart up to the hilt. 

Emily Travik Wayne was laid to rest beside her 
mother in the family burying lot, and a fresh 
name was carved upon the great square base that 
supported the marble angel with its outspread 
wings. 

Theodore Wayne stood beside the open grave, 
and the look on his face drew attention. 

As the coffin slid lower and lower into the 
earth, an invisible spirit of despair seemed settling 
upon the man. 

Long after the last tribute had been placed upon 
the mound he stood. 

Colonel Travik before leaving the spot, spoke 
to him. The white lips of the husband moved, oth- 
erwise there was no response, and the friends dis- 
persed. 

The last person driving through the black iron 


22 THi: MARTYR. 

gates, looking back, saw the dark, slender figure 

outlined against the grave and sky. 

At last he dropped on his knees and in utter help- 
lessness gave himself up to the force of the wild 
pain waves that burst over him like an incoming' 
tide. In agony he bent lower and lower into the 
fiowers until their fragrance stifled him. He did 
not weep, he had no tears; he did not pray, his 
heart was in a whirlwind, and he could frame no 
words, but he made a vow, and in his pain he 
thought that the vow made to a warm, loving wife 
and broken, could be kept when whispered into her 
ears through six feet of earth. 


THK MARTYR. 


23 


CHAPTER II. 

"THIS IS HELL!" 

In the early days of his untimely bereavement, 
Theodore Wayne more nearly rose to the possibili- 
ties of his manhood than ever before. 

The consciousness that his wife had died loving 
and trusting him, although mixed with much re- 
morse, was a solace to him. The knowledge that 
Colonel Travik felt a contempt for him acted as 
a prod to urge him to his best, and the child was 
his hope. His business received his attention, and 
for a time all went well. 

But before many months of this lonesome, new 
life had passed he felt his old appetite dogging him. 

For weeks he battled with it as it grew. 

He took fresh flowers to the grave beneath the 
angel’s wings and spent hours there in his silent 
fight, but there came a day when he did not go. 

There came a day when the fight had been fought 
and the appetite curse had again been victorious. 

Blear-eyed and staggering, he went about the 
street saying and doing those things that no man 
believes himself capable of doing when he is sober. 


24 THE MARTYR 

After this first debauch he “reformed” again, but 
the force of his will power had somewhat lessened 
and a second fall soon followed. 

This time, in a sad condition, he went to the 
home of Colonel Travik and demanded the little 
girl, but he was ordered from the place in a man- 
ner which, even in his condition, he partly under- 
stood and which filled him with humiliation and in- 
dignation when he became himself again. 

After this he summoned all his failing will power 
and made a mighty effort to be the man he longed 
to be. For a number of months he was in a degree 
successful; but toward the last of the time the 
effort was almost too great to be borne, and the 
consciousness that he was certain to fall again al- 
most drove him mad. 

While in this condition he went, as was his cus- 
tom to the cemetery, and this time he took with 
him a slender steel chain with a padlock and key. 
With every nerve stung to madness he hurried on 
with the vague notion of chaining himself under 
the shadow of the angel’s wings, throwing the key 
among the flowers on his wife’s grave and dying for 
her sake like a martyr. 

Less than half way between the city and the 
cemetery, there was a small tract of wooded ground 
which had been fenced in for a park and which 


the: martyr. 25 

was unused except for picnics. There were several 
houses near by, and yet it seemed isolated and its 
lonesomeness appealed to him, so he turned in 
there, taking as he did so the chain from his pocket. 

Groing into the shade where the trees stood close, 
he fastened himself to a stout little oak and tossed 
the key beyond his reach in front of him. 

Then he gave himself up to an agony indescrib- 
able. 

He had been here but a short time when the rash- 
ness of his act became apparent to his mind, and 
like a mad man he tugged at the chain, but he was 
hopelessly bound. 

Then he called, repeating the cry often. 

After a time, a boy came toward him, stopping 
now and then to look. 

At sight of the boy Theodore Wayne held out his 
hand entreatingly. 

“What can I do for you?” inquired the boy, gaz- 
ing in wonderment at the spectacle of a man 
chained to a tree, and cautiously keeping at a dis- 
tance. 

“The key! The key!” shouted the captive, point- 
ing in the direction he had thrown it. 

The boy looked carefully and after some search 
found it, the man meantime pulling frantically at 
the chain and shouting, “The key! The key! This 
is hell!” 


26 THE MARTYR. 

After he had found the key the boy was afraid 
to approach the man until he had in a measure 
become more quiet. When he did give it into his 
hands, the man’s fingers shook and trembled so that 
he called upon the boy to unfasten the lock. 

When the lock fell open, the man, with one eager 
bound, sprang away, cleared the fence and disap- 
peared down the roadside in the direction of the 
city, crying as he went: “Hell! Hell! Whisky!’’ 

The boy looked after him, then at the loose ends 
of the chain still swinging against the tree trunk, 
and again at the form of the rapidly disappearing 
man, while the words rang back in his ear, “This is 
hell! Whisky!” 

Just outside the city limits there is a resort 
known to pedestrians and wheelmen, called the 
Half Way House, where was a lunch counter 
and a bar. 

Into this place Theodore Wayne dashed, and here, 
in a poorly appointed room, he poured glass after 
glass of filthy liquor down his burning throat. 

The more he drank the more the desire leaped 
in him until his stomach revolted as usual at its 
load of poison, and as fast as he poured it into his 
throat, just so fast it .rushed back to the goblet’s 
brim. 

Here for days the almost demented man alter- 


THE MARTYR. 2^ 

nately battled with and yielded to his appetite. At 
length the crisis came. 

It was still early in the afternoon, but shadowy 
things began to show themselves and dodge about 
silently. 

His body shook with tremors one after another. 

His eyes, like balls of glass, seemed bursting from 
his head. 

His tongue, burning like fire, he held eagerly out 
into the air, while his head turned wildly, watching 
the shadowy things. 

When one came nearer than any of the others had 
done, he sprang from the bed and seizing a glass of 
liquor raised it in his trembling hand. 

As he did so, a thousand fiery serpents raised 
their slimy necks into his face and hissed. 

The glass fell to the floor, and the man leaped 
onto the bed with a scream and buried his face in 
a pillow, but the snakes that had dropped onto the 
floor instantly followed him, and he felt them rush- 
ing and writhing over him. At the same time a 
presence seemed to be filling the room. 

The door was closed, but the presence crowded 
in around the window casings and the door frames, 
vague, silent, but taking a shadowy form as it 
sprang and showing in its shadows white, dry arms. 

Then its empty eye sockets became visible and 
he saw that they were fixed upon him. 


28 


THE MARTYR. 


Gradually It came closer. 

Theodore Wayne sprang to a sitting posture and 
clenched his forehead between his burning hands. 

His veins stood out like whipcords, and he pant- 
ed hard as the shadowy thing with the fleshless 
arms and empty sockets approached him. 

Just as it was in the act of plucking out his heart 
with its long bony Angers, he gave a mighty bound 
and with a cry of terror ran wildly from the room, 
through the dingy bar and out, down the road to- 
ward the cemetery. 

With ten thousand hissing serpents and the 
shadowy thing in hot pursuit, he sped onward, glanc- 
ing over his shoulder from time to time, only to see 
them gaining on him. 

As he drew nearer the grove in which he had 
chained himself, his pursuers seemed to fall back, 
but just as he passed the spot a great number of 
vultures with iron talons suddenly lifted themselves 
from some dead thing, and with a swoop, roosted 
-^in the tree to which he had been fastened, and each 
one looked at him with empty eyes. 

For a moment he halted. 

Nothing was discernible behind him. 

A sudden stillness had come upon the earth, 
which seemed receding from him. He was not 
walking now nor running; he was not riding, but 


THE MARTYR 


29 


onward close to the ground he moved rapidly. 

He had only one thought, and that was to get to 
his wife’s grave. 

Each step he took seemed to carry him miles 
farther from anywhere or any human being. 

The stillness was oppressive. 

The earth had turned dead. 

Stretching away on every side were infinite seas 
and seas of fiowers, but they were all dead, brittle 
and brown, and over them was a dull green light 
cast by a dead sun. 

Where the dull green light met the shadowy hori- 
zon across the seas of dead fiowers, something dark- 
er than a shadow flitted and fanned like summer 
lightning. 

Every onward move took him miles farther into 
the heart of death, as he sped onward to the grave 
where the angel stood under the cedar tree. 

After what seemed ages of flight, the scene sud- 
denly changed. The roadway had turned into a 
narrow path between the lowlands and swamps, and 
the dull green light could not penetrate the thickets 
here. Dead boughs locked and interlocked over- 
head and the trunks of burnt trees stood like sen- 
tinels, while a leaden fog hung low and the smell 
of long corruption burdened the air. 

Not a breath stirred, not a sound came from the 


St) 


THE MARTYR. 


gloomy depths, but wherever there was an open- 
ing between the trunks, Somewhere beyond it all 
could be seen the waving and fanning of 'the great 
black darkness, and the man knew that it was Death 
and screamed as he sped on. 

After what seemed ages more of haunted travel, 
when the man fleeing for his life expected to be 
grasped by a ghoul each moment, he came to an 
open space. 

Here it was the cemetery had always been, but it 
had entirely disappeared. A low, rolling hill cov- 
ered with dead grass and perforated with many pits, 
stretched before him, and the green light hung so 
low and heavy that the man thought he should have 
to creep between it and the earth. 

While entering this place he heard from the low- 
lands a swish and the clank of iron talons, and he 
knew that the vultures were coming, so he leaped 
rather than climbed the hill while the hiss of snakes 
reached his ear from every passing pit, as if the 
bowels of the earth were fllled with them. 

Dead trees stood on the crest of the hill, and be- 
yond the ground sloped abruptly to a flat, indented 
with black spots showing where pools had been. 

Down this hillside in wild confusion he found 
the cemetery. 

Fences were sideways, tombstones were uprooted, 


THE MARTYR. 31 

graves were open and bits of broken caskets were 
scattered here and there. 

There was an absolute silence. Everything was 
dead. 

The green light from the dead sun cast an un- 
eaUhly pallor over the scene, and though no sight 
nor sound gave evidence of it, the man knew that 
Death lurked somewhere near. 

After what seemed ages more of search he saw the 
angel’s wings. 

As if running to a safe retreat, he hurried beneath 
their shadow, but the sight that met him froze the 
mad blood in his veins. 

His wife’s grave stood open from top to bottom. 

The coffin had been burst, and her body lay on 
the damp hillside, broken into a score of pieces; 
there the head, there an arm, yonder a knee — and 
while he looked, the fragments, as if instinct with 
life, fitted themselves together and his wife stood 
before him, loving and smiling. 

With a wild laugh of joy he rushed toward her, 
but just as he was in the act of taking her in his 
arms he heard the swish of the vultures’ wings, he 
heard the clang of their iron talons, and with a 
laugh like the laugh of fiends they swarmed between 
him and his love. 

Then his wife cast a reproachful look at him and 


32 


THE MARTYR. 


slid back into the cofRn which dropped immediately 
into the open grave. 

The mound formed, the blue grass rustled over it, 
and the vultures turned their sightless sockets upon 
him in triumph. 

With a great cry he sank by the side of the mound 
and buried his face in the grass, but immediately 
every blade of grass became a hissing serpent and 
darted at him, and then from every direction' they 
came, and turning about to escape he ran upon 
Death, who thrust his bony hand against him. 

He turned to the angel for protection, but the 
angel frowned upon him, and the scroll in her up- 
raised arm had turned into a sword full of fiery eyes, 
each eye piercing his soul in condemnation. 

Then Death closed in, and the swishing, clanging 
vultures swarmed upon him, and beneath their 
weight he fell with a mighty scream against the 
square base of the monument. 

Here the sexton found him a few moments later 
bathed in blood from a deep cut across his face. 

A scarlet splotch on the white marble near the 
angel’s foot told what had caused it. 

When Theodore Wayne came to himself again he 
found that he was lying on a bed in a hospital. 

When he inquired where he was, he was told by 
a woman in a white cap that he must not talk. 


THB MARTYR. 33 

When he raised his hand to his face to examine 
the strange bandages, it was placed at once by his 
side by the firm hand of the woman and he was 
told that he had been hurt and must “keep quiet.” 

After this attack of delirium tremens, Theodore 
Wayne found himself more wretched in every way 
than he had ever before been. The cut on his face 
healed, but the scar was there and attracted more or 
less attention wherever he went. 

Life seemed to lie before him, one vast stretch 
of miserable dreariness, and he determined to lea\e 
the city and start anew in some distant place; but 
before doing this he longed to see the child, now 
near the age of three years. 

Since the time he had been ordered from the home 
of his father-in-law, Theodore Wayne had not seen 
his girl, save as he saw her occasionally in the park 
with her nurse. 

He had no intention of going to the house again, 
and so watched for an opportunity somewhere else. 
This came one day, when, as he sat on a bench in 
the park, he saw Colonel Travik’s nurse coming to- 
ward him wheeling the child in a cart. 

She was accompanied by a man, and eagerly, 
Wayne spoke to the child as she drew near. The 
nurse seeing that he was interested im her charge 
was only too glad to be rid of her for a short time 


34 TUB MARTYR, 

while she engaged in a bit of important conversa- 
tion with the man. 

Taking his child from the cart, the unhappy 
father lifted her to his knees and pressed her to his 
heart. 

She was a fair child, with dark hair and eyes 
and a proud little mouth. She looked very much 
like her mother. 

He held her at arm’s length and after looking 
steadily in her face for a short time, again hugged 
her to his heart. Then he took off his hat and 
standing the child on the bench beside him he placed 
her soft hand against his forehead. The child 
moved her hand back and forth a moment, and as 
she did so hot tears rolled down his cheeks. 

Under the touch of the little hand memories that 
could never die stirred, and once again he felt the 
touch of the hand under the grass. 

The child was watching him. 

j'What makes you cry?” she asked presently. 

‘T’m lonesome for a little girl just like you.” 

The child looked at him curiously. 

“What is your name?” he inquired. 

“Em’ly — my name’s Em’ly.” 

“Emily — yes, I knew it.” 

Again the child looked into his face as if very 
much puzzled. 


THE MARTYR. 35 

“I knew your mother,” he said, by way of ex- 
planation. “Her name was Emily.” 

“Gran’pa loved my mamma — did you?” 

Something came suddenly into the man’s throat 
that for a moment made an answer impossible, but 
he choked it down and in a low voice said, “Yes, 
and she loved me.” 

“She did!” 

It was an exclamation of surprise, and the child 
again looked intensely into his face. 

“Where is your mother?” 

The child shook back her pretty curls, and a row 
of pearly teeth showed as she tipped her head and 
pointed above. 

“My mamma’s there.” 

“Where is your papa?” 

“My papa is a grandpa.” 

Theodore Wayne caught his breath hard a few 
times, then he gathered the dark-haired child in his 
arms and whispered hoarsely: 

“I am your father.” 

She drew back and looked at him. Then her red 
lips took on a pout. 

“You are not!” she said, decidedly. 

“Why not?” 

“You are too ugly! See here!” and she placed the 
tip of her finger against the scar on his face. 


VV; 




36 THE MARTYR 

Then he knew why the child had gazed so intent- 
ly at his face. He had forgotten the scar, but the 
touch of the child’s finger went like a shock to his 
soul. 

She objected to the scar now. If she were older 
she would object to the cause of the scar. 

The child asked him several questions which he 
did not hear and then made a move as if to get 
down from his knee. 

“I am going far away. Will you say ‘Good-by, 
papa,’ and kiss me?” 

‘‘My papa is a grandpa,” the child again said with 
emphasis. 

‘‘All right,” he said with a sigh. “Will you kiss 
me?” 

The child hesitated a moment as if debating the 
question, then she raised the corner of her cloak 
and holding it across the scar kissed him several 
times, looking at him in a wondering way. 

Then he gave her a piece of money, and after 
handing her to the nurse left the park. 


THE MARTYR. 


37 


CHAPTER III. 

“HE IS ABLE TO DELIVER THEE." 

On the streets of a western mining city, one. even- 
ing in early fall, a man walked. 

He did not seem to be going anywhere, looking 
for any one, nor to have any interest in anything 
about him. 

He walked aimlessly and slowly like an old man, 
and, when he passed in front of a lighted window, 
a scar and lines cut deep by dissipation showed 
upon his face. 

This man was Theodore Wayne. 

Years had passed since he had left his native 
home, and every year had but added to his burden. 
Like a derelict’s, his course led, ever nearing the 
great end for which he longed and yet which he 
feared. 

After kissing his child “good-by” on that long 
ago morning in the park, he had turned away, de- 
termined to reform in some distant city. 

For the first few months after the change, he 
did well, but as his reform was built on the same 
old base, its end was predestinated. 


38 the: martyr. 

At last, he did what he had said he would never 
do, he entered an institution for the treatment of 
alcoholism with faith in their warrant of his cure. 

For a longer time than usual after leaving this 
place, he left liquor untouched and attended to his 
business. 

Hope arose. His shattered manhood began to 
come together, and he dreamed of the time when 
he might go to his daughter in the full stature of a 
man. 

But about this time, the governor of the state 
gave a banquet, and among the honored guests was 
Theodore Wayne, 

When the toasts were drunk, out of respect to 
his host, he responded, and before morning, the 
foundations of his new manhood were demolished 
by floods of liquor, and once more he was a wreck. 

He appealed to the institution, but was turned 
away with the consolation that his case was hope- 
less. 

Froni this time on, he struggled no more. His 
will power had been taxed to death; his manhood 
was a dream. 

In the intervening years, his father had died, 
leaving to his son whose welfare he had so sadly 
neglected in his youth, a handsome fortune. 


THE MARTYR. 39 

Knowing this son as he did, he took the precau- 
tion to arrange matters so that his income was 
paid on the installment plan. This made it im- 
probable that he would ever suffer want. 

As he walked, a shudder passed over him now and 
then. He had been drinking, and the unmistakable 
symptoms of another visitation of his dread dis- 
ease crept upon him. 

On a corner, at no great distance from him, a 
crowd had congregated, and the voice of a woman 
singing, struck his ear. 

He hesitated a second. The song that came in 
snatches was something about a mother and a boy. 
Ho did not try to catch the words. Recollections of 
his mother brought no tender thoughts, and the 
music was an irritation. He despised emotional 
religion. 

Straying around a corner, he was soon out of 
hearing of it, and he intended going into the near- 
est saloon and, without farther struggle, giving him- 
self into the hands of the appetite that was rising 
within him like a storm. Yet he was afraid, and 
though the appetite lashed with fury and cut and 
stung, he faltered, and the perspiration stood cold 
on his forehead, for he knew what it meant to fall 
again; he knew that his life would surely go out 


40 the martyr. 

in a fierce fight sometime and already he was very 
weak. 

After turning several more corners, the sound of 
singing again came to him. 

Clearer and fainter, and clearer and fainter, it 
rose and fell, until suddenly, as a door opened near 
him, it burst out in full chorus: 

"He is a — ble to deliver thee, 

He is a - - ble " 

Then the door shut. 

Theodore Wayne stopped and mentally repeated 
the words that sounded in his ear. 

From time to time, persons went in, and each 
time the door was opened the song floated out. 

After hesitating a few moments, Theodore Wayne 
stepped close to the door and, when the next man 
went in, he followed. 

The same woman he had seen on the street a 
short time before was speaking. 

“There are so many tired souls, tired, tired. 
Tired of life and fearful of death. Tired of them- 
selves — so tired. Do you want rest? O my sis- 
ter, my brother— listen! ‘Come unto me all ye 
that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give 
you rest’ ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they 
shall be as white as snow.’ Do you doubt it? Sing 
the chorus again.” 


THE MARTYR. 41 

And at a downward stroke of the little Bible she 
held in her hand, the words rolled out: 

He is able to deliver thee, 

He is able to deliver thee; 

Though by sin oppressed, 

Come to Him for rest; 

Our God is able to deliver thee. 

Theodore Wayne fastened his gaze upon the calm 
face of the earnest woman. 

When she had finished, others spoke briefly. One 
of these was a man with a strange accent. He was 
unlettered and unfashionable, but he had a glow- 
ing face and a joyful ring in his voice. 

To this man Theodore Wayne turned his atten- 
tion. 

Gradually he straightened himself in his seat, and 
when the short testimony had been given, the man’s 
dress and ignorance had been forgotten, and the 
man in broadcloth saw in him a brother, for he had 
told of struggles such as no man knows save he 
who has passed through them. 

Once more hope sprang suddenly up in his heart 
with such force that he wondered and breathed 
softly lest he should frighten it. 

It was then a touch startled him and a soft voice 
close to his ear said; 

“Are you saved?” 


42 THE MARTYR. 

Turning, he looked into the face of the woman 
who had come up behind him. 

She knew before she asked him what his answer 


would be, so it made no matter that he did not 
answer her immediately. 

“Do you wish to be saved?” 



“SAY IT ALOUD, IT WILL HELP YOU,” 
THE WOMAN SUGGESTED. 


THE MARTYR. 43 

Again he looked into her face, and after a mo- 
ment replied fiercely: “My God! Yes.” 

The woman smiled and said: “He is able to de- 
liver thee.” 

“I do not understand it.” 

“You do not have to understand. He is your 
Father— you are his child; trust him.” 

“But I have been for ” and he stopped as if 

counting the years. 

“The paralytic lay for thirty-four years.” 

“But you do not know. I am a— a hopeless drunk- 
ard.” 

“So was the brother yonder”, and she nodded in 
the direction of the German who was singing 
lustily. 

Theodore Wayne mused a short time, knitting and 
unknitting his fingers nervously. Then he turned 
to the woman eagerly: 

“What must I do to be saved?” 

The woman laughed a low, joyful laugh. 

“No man asks that who is not half saved already.” 

“But what must I do?” he again questioned. 

“Do you mind doing as I ask you?” she said, 
glancing at his costly dress. 

“I mind nothing.” 

“Come, then,” she said, touching his arm, and 


44 THE MARTYR. 

when she saw that he would follow, she led the 

way toward the front of the room where she 

dropped beside a bench on her knees. Mechanically, 

he did as. others were doing. He knelt beside the 

woman and with a groan, buried his face in his 

hands. 

For a short time there was silence. Then, while 
some one on the opposite side of the room prayed, 
the woman talked softly to him. 

After this the German lifted his voice in prayer, 
and a hush fell over the congregation, for it was 
as if he spoke to God face to face. 

Theodore Wayne felt himself lifted from his sur- 
roundings by some mighty cable cord of longing, 
and he trembled, for it seemed that his soul in a 
balance swung out over eternity, while a brother 
pleaded for yet a little more mercy. 

As soon as the prayer ended, the people with one 
accord took up the refrain: 

Just as I am without one plea 
But that Thy blood was shed for me. 

And that Thou bidst me come to Thee. 

O Lamb of God, I come— I come. 

Over and over they sang it, softly and reverently 

In the breast of the man kneeling on the dusty 
floor, there was a conflict so fierce that it seemed. 


THE MARTYR. 45 

at times, as though his physical body would burst 
into a thousand fragments under the strain. 

His old remorseless enemy of appetite in hot fury 
tortured him, but some powerful, uprising force had 
advanced to meet it, and within the man these 
forces measured arms, while in his soul he 
cried: “Lord have mercy upon me a sinner”; for 
well he knew that the supremest moment of his life 
was upon him. 

“Say it aloud, it will help you,” the woman with 
the little Bible suggested, and like a child he re- 
peated the words of the song. A second time, with 

1 tears in his eyes and clasped hands, he said the 
-words, “O Lamb of God, I come, I come.” 
ife As he spoke, he caught for an instant the vision 
\of a thorn-crowned face, a pair of eyes looked deep 
into his soul in a way that no mortal eyes have 
power to look, and the raging battle ceased, 
j Over the place, sore and torn with conflict, there 
came a flood of that peace that passeth human un- 
derstanding and the glory of it lit his scarred face. 

“Something has happened,” he said, turning to 
the woman. 

“Bless the Lord!” she cried, “I have seen it 
befoie!” 

The next night after his conversion, Theodore 


46 THE MARTYR. 

Wayn© went again to the mission and told some- 
thing of his life and of his happy experience of the 
previous evening. 

At first he was not sure that he could tell it as 
he v/ished it to be heard, but with the effort, the 
power came. 

The tongue that had so often been thick and un- 
ruly, took on again its tones of running silver. His 
long lost force returned two-fold. The softness that 
had won a woman’s heart came again to help in 
wooing other hearts, and over it all a pathos seemed 
to hang, like a gentle, haunting spirit breathing of 
the past. 

As he spoke, men, visaged like animals, leaned 
forward, and, while they listened, the animal mask 
fell off. 

Women, dogged and sullen, lifted their eyes and 
fastened them upon him while like barbed shafts 
his words pierced their sin-bound souls. 

As these people,^ many of them, had suffered, so 
he had suffered; as they had hoped and fallen and 
despaired, so he had done, and as he by the grace 
of God had been made a new man, so might they. 

With the fervor of a brother and the tenderness 
of a mother he pleaded, until tears coursed over 
many callous cheeks, and dead hopes rose again in 
many throbbing breasts. 


the: martyr. 47 

Before he had dreamed of such a thing, many 
interested persons foresaw in him a power as a pub- 
lic speaker. 

When he was at first approached on the subject, 
the idea was repugnant to him, as he felt himself 
the least fitted of all men for a public life, but 
finally becoming convinced that his life work lay in 
this direction, he consented. 

Before he started on his new and untried career, 
Theodore Wayne joined one of the most glorious 
of all the church denominations in Christendom, 
and with its hearty approval launched out to do 
battle for souls that were being sent to their eter- 
nal doom by the thousand at the hands of the traf- 
fic in drink. 

The first method of work that suggested itself to 
hi.s mind was the cultivation of sentiment. 

To this end he entered a community that pre- 
sented the sorry and disgusting spectacle of a fair- 
ly self-respecting people, writhing in the coils of 
the traffic, blinded by political trickery and groan- 
ing at the fate of their sons, as they sank into 
moral and physical corruption. 

With the ardor of a man of his faith and tempera- 
ment, he threw himself into his work and after the 
manner of the fervid “sentiment former”, he culti- 
vated sentiment. - 


48 THE MARTYR. 

But he discovered, after a season of hard work, 
that the more he cultivated sentiment, the less of 
practical value was accomplished and the greater 
the increase of the saloon. 

Then he studied other methods in the art of 
“controlling the liquor traffic.” 

Local option he found a good thing, as far as it 
went, but “too local and too optional.” 

Next he studied “government control,” and after 
that the popular and pernicious policy of high 
license. 

Both of these he found abominable in principle 
and ineffective in practice. 

After a disheartening study of regulations that 
would not regulate and restrictions that would not 
restrict, he concluded that the solution of the prob- 
lem must come through a heart to heart effort with 

the individual. 

a 

To this end he turned his attention, and his ef- 
forts were welcomed heartily by the church, and 
great crowds heard him wherever he went. 

Men were moved to tears by his pleadings, and 
human wrecks by the score signed the pledge and 
reformed. 

Theodore Wayne rejoiced at the results of his 
work, but his rejoicing was but for a short time, for, 
on looking back, his soul was made sick. 


the: martyr, 49 

Nine-tenths of those who reformed fell again, and 
the bitter truth was borne into his mind that, while 
he was taxing himself to the utmost to raise one 
fallen man, the saloon was with ease creating a 
hundred to take his place. 

Men took his advice and voted for the lesser of 
two evils, and were rewarded by seeing the very 
men they had elected appoint brewers and distillers 
in high places, consort with liquor dealers and bend 
their knees to the traffic on every possible occasion. 

Great truths evolve slowly, the one sure conso- 
lation being that, as God lives, they are forever at 
work. 

When Theodore Wayne grasped the sorry truth 
that regulation does not regulate and restriction 
does not restrict when applied to the liquor traffic, 
and when he had thoroughly mastered the problem 
of “ratio” as it relates to the making and saving 
of drunkards, he hardly knew which way to turn 
for a solution, and dissatisfied with himself and 
disgusted with the results of his various efforts, he 
attended the general conference of his church. 

It was at this conference that the matchless 
phrase, “It can never be legalized without sin” was 
coined. It rang out over Christendom like a trum- 
pet blast, and Theodore Wayne was thrilled with 
a sense of victorious joy, and he said: “The church 


50 THB MARTYR, 

is right. IT CAN NEVER BE LEGALIZED WITH- 
OUT SIN, therefore, it MUST BE PROHIBITED BY 
LAW.’* 

Then with the courage of his convictions he de- 
termined to champion the one remaining policy of 
dealing with the liquor traffic. 

The truth had been dawning on his mind for 
many months, and when the voice of the church 
thundered forth her magnificent convictions his 
heart leapt. 

But before he burned the bridges and proclaimed 
his new allegiance, he spent a night on his knees; 
not that it was hard for him to give up a political 
alliance, but because the life work he had chosen 
was dearer to him than the apple of his eye, and 
he did not wish to block its progress by a hasty 
act or a radical movement. 

The infinite truth was stamped upon his soul 
that expediency is for a day, but God’s eternal right 
is for the everlasting ages. 

After this night on his knees, he arose in the 
stillness of the morning twice free. 

A commander in the front line of battle is a tar- 
get, and Theodore Wayne took rank as a command- 
er after his first hearing. 

Whereas he had formerly cultivated sentiment, he 
now cultivated ballots, and straight way, the enemy 
bristled. 


THE MARTYR. 61 

Their shafts came in torrents, and he expected 
this; but with their missiles came a shower from 
the rear, and, looking back, he beheld with con- 
sternation, the church, bishops and all, on safe 
ground, flying their immortal flag and calling him— 
back. 

Steadily, shot for shot, and shot for shot, the 
deadly hail came from enemy and friend, and, as it 
mixed above his head and fell over him, he could 
not detect one from the other, for both used the 
same ammunition and the bullets whistled as they 
flew, “Cultivate sentiment”, “Be expedient”, “Pro- 
hibition does not prohibit”. 

Then between the firing lines of the bishops and 
the brewers, by the grace of God he took his stand, 
content to act his little part upon the scaffold with 
Truth rather than to sit with ecclesiastical and 
political potentates upon a throne, and from that 
day forth, Theodore Wayne walked among men as a 
“martyr-elect.” 


52 


THE MARTYR. 


/ 


CHAPTER IV. 

“MT PERCY!” 

The spacious southern home of Colonel Travik 
was in readiness for his granddaughter’s first New 
Year’s reception. 

The florist had made his last visit, and under the 
supervision of the artistic Miss Emily, not a palm 
nor a rose was missing to make the effect perfect. 

Even the elegant cut-glass punch bowl glowed like 
a diamond on its velvet mat and seemed waiting 
for someone to admire it. 

This punch bowl had been the cause of some dis- 
cussion. 

When Emily first broached the subject of serving 
punch, her grandfather had held up his hands in 
horror and had carefully explained to her that he 
belonged to, indeed was one of the chief supporting 
pillars in, a church which teaches that the “buying, 
selling, or using of intoxicating liquors as a bever- 
age,’’ is of misleading moral tendency, and diso- 
bedient to the order and discipline of the church. 

“But grandpa,’’ she said, “punch is not liquor.’’ 

“What was that Aunt Lily used to say about 


THE MARTYR. 53 

‘drinkin ob de debbil’s broth and eatin ob de deb- 
bil?’ ” the Colonel inquired. 

“But, grandpa, a reception without punch— why, 
who ever heard of such a thing? I should be 
ashamed to see an account of it in the papers un- 
less it said: ‘The punch bowl was gracefully presided 
over by Miss and Miss 

“Wouldn’t you be ashamed to have the bishop 
read the account of it if it did mention the punch 
bowl? He will be our guest in a few days, you 
remember.” 

“Yes, yes, I know; but, grandpa, the bishop was 
the guest of the President not long ago, and every- 
body knows that he not only tolerates punch, but 
habitually serves strong liquors at his table, doesn’t 
he grandpa?” 

“I believe he does.” 

“Well, grandpa, didn’t a number of your church 
bishops and other ecclesiastical shining lights make 
a brilliant set of resolutions not long since, com- 
mending the acts of the President and saying every 
thing nice of him?” 

“At the recent missionary meeting — yes.” 

“Well, grandpa, isn’t the bishop who is to be our 
guest a very close personal friend of our President? 
Doesn’t he know of all these things?” 


“I presume he does.” 


54 THB MARTYR 

“Well, grandpa, didn’t you read a letter in some 
paper last night from this bishop in which he said 
the President was in his opinion a pure and noble 
Christian?” 

“Yes, I did, but what are you trying to get at?” 

“I am just trying to find out whether or not your 
church has pets and privileged characters. I be- 
lieve the President is right myself. It is nobody’s 
business what he chooses to serve or drink, but if 
he can do these, things without in any way altering 
his relation to the church that says he should not, 
cannot you too?” 

‘ Why — I suppose so.” 

“Well, then, grandpa, be good. We must, for 
Percy’s sake make this reception something extra, 
and he would miss the punch bowl because you 
know it is proper to have it.” 

Colonel Travik weighed the matter a moment, 
then said refiectively: “Well, go on with your 
punch bowl arrangements. Circumstances alter 
cases. It would be unwise to offer punch to certain 
strata of society, perhaps, but our guests happily 
know the propriety of being temperate. Only don’t 
make it too strong, the bishop might not under- 
stand; he is a godly man.” 

The slender, dark-haired girl broke into a merry 
laugh at her grandfather’s evident reluctance. 


THE MARTYR. 55 

“Send the bishop to me,” she said, “I will en- 
lighten his understanding by referring him to our 
President who sings devoutly and is never absent 
from his seat in church. Hurrah for the punch 
bowl!” 

The occasion of this especial reception was the 
home coming of a company from the seat of war 
in the Philippine Islands. 

Percy Travik, Emily’s uncle and Colonel Tra- 
vik’s only living child, and Lieutenant Winter, a 
warm friend, were among the returning. 

Percy was not more than eight years older than 
Emily and had been to her more like her own 
brother than her mother’s. Having never known 
the affection of either a father or a mother, Percy 
had a large place in her heart, and she loved him 
dearly. 

Lieutenant Winter was, perhaps, three years older 
than Percy. The two had been school companions, 
college friends and war time comrades. Just what 
place this manly young soldier had in Emily’s heart 
no one had inquired, and she had not been heard 
to say, but her thoughts were with him very often, 
and it was for him, in truth, more than for Percy 
that she wished to appear at her best on their home 
coming. 


56 THE MARTYR. 

When Colonel Travik saw his son marching away 
with the boys in blue, his heart swelled with pride, 
for in the broad shouldered, fair faced youth he 
thought he saw a hero. He kept close watch of the 
meager battle news that was allowed to appear in 
print, expecting to see notice of some deed of daring 
or mighty exploit in which his son had figured 
prominently, but he never saw it. 

On the other hand, the letters that at first came 
regularly, came later at broken intervals, and there 
was something about them that seemed unlike the 
boy; the frankness of his nature was undergoing 
some kind of a change, slow and subtle, but appar- 
ent to the father’s keen perception. 

Once, after a longer time than usual had elapsed 
between letters Colonel Travik had received a com- 
munication from Lieutenant Winter, in which he 
spoke of Percy as being a little “under the weather” 
and which hinted vaguely that all was dot right. 

When the company at last reached home, after a 
long and tiresome journey, the bands played a joy- 
ful welcome, while small boys cheered and their 
fathers asked a multitude of questions. 

After the first demonstrations were over, the sol- 
diers, with but few exceptions, swarmed into the 
saloons that the city boasted; where they stayed 
until the money was spent that had escaped the four 
hundred saloons in Manila. 


THE MARTYR. 67 

It was the evening before the Travik reception 
that the company arrived home. 

Colonel Travik and Emily were so delighted to 
have Percy once more at home that they did not 
let him out of their sight the first evening. 

As weeks and months make time, Percy’s ab- 
sence had not been very long, and yet the separa- 
tion seemed to have strangely altered him. 

His round, fair face had taken on more flesh and 
color, but it was rather something he had lost than 
anything he had gained that marked the change. 

Colonel Travik spoke of this change to Lieutenant 
Winter, who also spent his first evening home with 
them, but W’inter was silent on the subject, until 
Percy had retired, excusing himself on account of 
a headache. 

When the Colonel mentioned it again, a troubled 
look came over the face of the young soldier. 

“To be frank with you. Colonel Travik, Percy has 
formed some bad habits while he has been away.’’ 

“What habits?’’ 

“Percy, I am sorry to say, drinks some.’’ 

“H’m, I’m sorry to hear it, but it cannot be any- 
thing serious. Percy has by inheritance I hope a 
first-class moral backbone.’’ 

“A man in the Philippines must have a ‘moral 
backbone’ of cast iron .f he would escape degener- 


THE MARTYR. 


58 

ating into a beast. The plan for such a course of 
evolution has been arranged to perfection by our 
government.” 

Colonel Travik looked annoyed. 

‘T hope you do not consider Percy in that state of 
evolution,” he said. 

“Perhaps my words were not wisely chosen,” said 
the Lieutenant, “excuse me, but Percy has been in 
the guard house more than once.” 

“My Percy!” 

Our Percy, yes sir. I have tried to use my friend- 
ly influence to keep him from the trouble he has 
been in; I even went so far as to offer to sign a 
pledge with him, but it was no use. What is the 
friendly influence of one man, or. a hundred, worth 
in the face of hundreds of saloons and all the regi- 
mental beer a man can hold?” 

Colonel Travik was thoughtful a moment. 

“Too much restraint is unwise. Perhaps he had 
done better if you had tried less to manage him. 
You know Percy — he resents interference.” 

“Yes, I know Percy, and there are ten thousand 
like him in our army. Boys, young, with their 
characters unformed, far away from restraint of 
every kind. Why, I want to know, must hundreds 
of saloons be thrust in the way of these men when 
the territory is under martial law? It is an outrage! 


THE MARTYR 69 

Why should the army canteen be tolerated for one 
moment by a Christian or even a civilized govern- 
ment? Why is a traffic that eats the morals of a 
nation like a running cancer, casting its corruption 
on the mercy of society, allowed to exist any how? 
I am not talking for temperance and I do not call 
myself a Christian, but I have seen the sure dam- 
nation of it all. I have seen! Believe me. Colonel 
Travik, I have seen!” and the soldier brought his 
fist down on the table. 

‘‘It does seem a pity, indeed it is a shame that the 
saloon has got a foothold among a people we hope 
to Christianize, but I really don’t see how it’s to be 
helped. As to Percy, I trust, indeed I am inclined 
to believe that he will come out all right. I am 
sorry that his record has been marred by his indis- 
cretion, but most young men sow wild oats. He 
was a good boy before he went away, and now that 
he is home again, he will be all right.” 

*‘I hope so,” but a certain tone in Lieutenant Win- 
ters’ voice implied a doubt. ‘‘I only told you of this 
that you might be on your guard, so to speak; I 
am Percy’s friend and yours. Colonel Travik, and 
Miss Emily’s, and no man knows better than I what 
a stain would mean to the honorable name of this 
most honorable family.” 

“Thank you, and forgive a father for believing 
that worry is unnecessary in this case.” 


60 THE MARTYR. 

Then Colonel Travik smiled blandly and Percy’s 
name was mentioned no more that evening. 

The next afternoon, when Lieutenant Winter was 
ushered into the parlor, he was treated to two sur- 
prises. 

The first was Emily. 

Since her babyhood he had known her, and 
though he had seen her the evening before. Lieu- 
tenant Winter was quite surprised at her appear- 
ance as she stood, like a queen, with her glossy hair 
piled high and her smooth neck and arms showing 
through the gauze that draped her. 

Thinking of Percy and her friend, she had taken 
extra care in her toilet for the evening, and in the 
first glance he cast upon her, she knew that the 
effect she had studied was as she desired. 

The second surprise was that punch was being 
served in the house. 

Emily carelessly mentioned this to him, and was 
surprised to note the change that came over his face 
in an instant. 

“Does punch make you sick?” she asked play- 
fully. 

He looked at her a moment without smiling. 

“How could you have punch after what I told 
you about Percy?” 

“But punch is not liquor. Everybody drinks punch 


THE MARTYR. 61 

— everybody, and you must drink some, too. There 
can be no harm in it.” 

“Destinies have hung on things less powerful and 
less treacherous than a bowl of punch. I am sorry, 
but I shall be obliged to decline your hospitality,” 
and there was in his voice the same tone that Emily 
had noticed the evening before when he spoke oif 
Percy. 

“You decline! Then you must tell me why.” 

“Early impressions sometimes cut grooves that 
years cannot efface. When I was a boy, I saw a 
man in the veritable throes of torment. He was 
chained to a tree and was screaming ‘Hell! 
Whisky!’ Since then I have seen abundant proof 
that in his maniacal cry he spoke more bitter truth 
than madness.” 

“How horrible! But then you are no such crea- 
ture as he was. You are a soldier. A soldier is 
afraid of nothing. Do try my lovely punch. You 
know the ethics of manners.” 

“Why is it I wonder that people talk so much of 
the ethics of manners and so little of the ethics of 
morals. I have few convictions, and what I have 
are not brilliant, but such as they are I propose to 
stand by them. A soldier — a sober soldier would 
tell you that in marching over an extremely peril- 
ous road, the safest passage way would be that 
farthest from the precipice.” 


62 THE MARTYR. 

“Go, then," she said “and keep Percy from the 
edge of that punch bowl, or I fear he will fall in. He 
haunts it,” and she laughed a merry laugh, but as 
Lieutenant Winter turned away he felt the weight 
of a disappointment fall upon him. The one girl 
that he had long been most interested in was, to the 
utmost of her ability, conforming herself to the hol- 
low forms of society and between this conforma- 
tion and the transformation to the noble woman- 
hood that he had hoped to see, there lay the differ- 
ence of the opposites. 

Quite early in the afternoon Percy began to act 
strangely. 

His usual elegant manners were many times for- 
gotten and he made himself conspicuous by being 
silly. 

Lieutenant Winter was generally somewhere near 
him, and several times spoke to him, which only 
seemed to quicken his recklessness. 

Finally the Lieutenant called Colonel Travik’s at- 
tention to his son’s conduct, when Percy in answer 
to his father’s cautions requested to be let alone; 
said he “meant no harm,” “knew how to act,” “when 
to drinlc punch and when to let it alone,” wanted no 
one “spying on him” and no suggestions made. 

But after a time, Percy’s conduct became so rude 
and noticeable that Colonel Travik found it neces- 


THB MARTYR. 63 

sary to suggest to the young man that he retire 
from the company. Percy, however, had no notion 
of having his personal liberty interfered with, and 
flatly refused to do this, and after some uncivil re- 
^ marks to his father, he lost his temper, and, with 
an oath, seized his hat, and in full dress, hurried 
- down the street. 

y It was not the work of many minutes to reach 
It: a saloon, where he took two drinks of something 

* "stronger than punch. The addition of this to the 

• supply already on hand increased his merriment, 
i His blood raced hot and soon he was swinging his 
► coat about his head, cheering for the President, the 
^ administration, the “fair sex” and the “cocktails” he 
: had just swallowed, like any other drunken soldier. 

Acting thus, he left the saloon for a little walk 
upon the public street, but his stroll came to an un- 
timely end. Turning a corner suddenly, he ran with 
r full force against two ladies, one of whom fell 
against a telephone pole, the other upon the pave- 
ment, while Percy, tripping his toe, sat down upon 
, , her. 

When she screamed a policeman came, and almost 
i before he knew it Percy was on his way to the 
w lockup. 

■■ But the young man was dressed in broadcloth, 
f and there . is a difference between broadcloth and 


64 THE MARTYR, 

blue jeans. So his father was notified in the early 
evening of his son’s trouble, and, lest the escapade 
should come lo the attention of newspapers or 
bishops, he hurried to the rescue. 

With her heart beating wildly with shame, Emily 
waited for their return, and hot tears filled her eyes 
at the rude tone in which Percy spoke to her and 
the unkind way in which he pushed her aside. 

Percy did not want to go home, but in the hands 
of his father, he acquiesced, and was at last dom- 
iciled in his own room, where it was supposed he 
would stay. 

But neither Emily nor her grandfather knew how 
his short service in the army of a Christian nation 
had demoralized a once good boy. 


THK MARTYR. 


65 


CHAPTER V. 

“JUST AS IF HE WERE SOME COMMON 
SOLDIER.” 

The Traviks breakfasted late the morning after 
the reception, but even then Percy did not put in an 
appearance. 

“Poor Percy!” Emily said. “He has been rough- 
ing it so long he is completely tired out. I think I 
will carry a nice little breakfast to him, it will seem 
like old times,” and, suiting the action to the word, 
she arranged a dainty tray and started with it to his 
room. 

When she arrived outside his door she stopped and 
listened. All was quiet within, so quiet that she im- 
agined she heard him breathing, and she hesitated, 
but finally knocked. 

There was no answer. 

Again she knocked, this time a little louder. 

Still there was no answer. 

Then she turned the knob and pushed the door. 
It swung open and she stepped in with a smile, but 
the smile was short. 

The room was empty. There was a slight depres- 
sion on one side the bed, and Percy’s dress suit 


66 THE MARTYR, 

hung carelessly across the back of a chair, other- 
wise there was nothing to tell that he had been in 
the room. 

She placed the tray on a table, and stood gazing 
at the bed and the suit, as if expecting them to 
speak. Then she went to the wardrobe, and upon 
examination found that his uniform was gone. 

’ Wherever he was he had gone in the garb of a sol- 
dier. 

She felt it useless to look, still she did look in 
every conceivable place large enough for a man to 
hide, but it was a vain search. Percy was i^ot there. 
. Leaving the steaming breakfast, she hurried back 
to the dining room to tell her grandfather. 

He looked up from the coffee which he had been 
slowly sipping. 

“What ails the boy?” he questioned. 

“He is not there.” 

“What?” 

“Percy has gone.” 

“Gone? Where?” 

“I do not know, grandpa. He is not there. He 
was not in the bed at all last night and his uni- 
form is gone.” 

Colonel Travik rose from the table and hastened 
to Percy’s room, closely followed by Emily. 

He found it as she had said. Percy, was not there. 


THE MARTYR. 67 

“Strange!” he exclaimed. “What in the name of 
common sense has gotten into the boy? Percy was 
in no condition to go out. Well, perhaps, he will 
come in all right shortly. It he does not I will go 
out and look him up, or he may get us all into trou- 
ble. Come, little girl.” 

They descended the stairs slowly, and a second 
time seated themselves at the breakfast table, and 
thouga neither spoke each knew the other’s thoughts 
by the slow precision with which the cakes were cut 
and the coffee stirred. 

While they were still sitting at the table, the 
door bell rang. 

Emily started to her feet, but her grandfather 
bade her stay, saying that it was Percy— he would 
go. 

The voice that answered her grandfather’s when 
he opened the door was a man’s voice, but it was 
not Percy’s. 

Emily tried to catch the conversation, but it was 
low spoken and the stranger was doing most of the 
talking, yet from a word dropped now and then 
she knew that it was of Percy they talked. 

After what seemed to her a very great while the 
conversation stopped and the door closed. Yet her 
grandfather did not come. 

Emily could wait no longer, and stepping into the 


68 THE MARTYR. 

hall, she found Colonel Travik close to the door, 

standing like a man in a dream. 

“What is it, grandpa? Tell me!” she cried, going 
quickly to his side. “Is Percy sick? Has he been 
hurt? What is the matter with Percy?” 

“If this report be true — it is worse than all of 
this; if the report be true, Percy is — is — Percy 
has — ” Colonel Travik looked into Emily’s face and 
stopped. 

“Has what, grandpa? Do tell me.” 

“Has killed a man.” 

Emily turned her face to her grandfather’s with a 
look of horror. 

“Percy killed a man? Our Percy? It is not true! 
I do not care who says it, grandpa — it is not true!” 

“Come,” said Colonel Travik, taking her by the 
arm and leading the way into the dining room. 

A third time they sat down beside the table, this 
time they did not so much as see what was spread 
upon it. 

For a few moments they sat in absolute silence. 

The ticking of the mantel clock sounded loud and 
measured, and their own breathing seemed to send 
vibrations of impending calamity from one to the 
other across the still air. 

“Where is Percy?” Emily at length ventured. 

“In jail.” 

“Our Percy? Our Percy in jail?” 


THE MARTYR. 09 

“Such is the information by an ofllcer who is sup- 
posed to know." 



“I FIND MYSELF IN THE PLACE OF 
THE EFFECT; SOMEWHERE UP THE 
LINE THE CAUSE EXISTS” 



70 the martyr. 

“But, grandpa — it’s a mistake — a horrible mis- 
take!” 

“I am afraid it is all too true. In fact, Emily, 
Percy IS in jail.” 

The flush left the girl’s cheeks and she turned her 
eyes fixedly upon her grandfather’s face. 

At this juncture a servant entered and placed a 
copy of the early morning newspaper at Colonel 
Travik’s elbow. 

He looked at it a moment as if in apprehension, 
then nervously took it up and unfolded it. 

At the first glance his hand trembled and he raised 
the paper so as to screen his face. ' ' 

Emily’s quick eye saw this, and her heart gave a 
great throb of anxiety, for she was one of that large 
class of people who think a sin is twice a sin if it 
gets into print. 

She watched her grandfather closely. She saw 
that he hurriedly read, and then still held the paper. 

At last looking up he met Emily’s eye. 

“Do you want to look at it?” 

“Yes.” 

She held out her hand, and he gave it to her. 

At the head of the second column on the first page 
in bold, black letters she read: 

“Fatal stabbing affray! At a late hour last night 
in a resort in the rear of Bush’s saloon! Percy 


• XHE martyr. . 71 

Travik, son of Colonel Travik.r widely known in po- 
litical and religious circles, the murderer. : .Victim 
taken charge by the undertaker. Murderer in jail- 
A y.ellow haired woman the cause of the trouble.” 

Then followed an account of the tragedy in all its 
sickening details. 

Long before she had reached the end, Emily 
dropped the paper with a sharp cry. 

“Grandpa, grandpa! It cannot be true! Our Percy 
could not do this! It reads just as if he were some 
common soldier. It is not true! O Percy!” and 
dropping her head on the table she burst into a flood 
of tears. 

Colonel Travik watched her. Perhaps his thoughts 
.went back to the days of misery when she 
was born. Perhaps he saw once more the hus- 
band of the fair young woinan in the coffin; per- 
haps he entered somewhat into the anguish of that 
husband whom he had so harshly treated. Perhaps 
it dawned upon his mind for the first time that there 
is no blood so noble, no name so honored, no love 
so sacred that it can escape the ravages of the trafr 
fic in rum. 

“Don’t cry,” he presently said in a low voice. “It 
Is of no u^e. God knows it is awful, but there may 
be extenuating circumstances. The papers send the 
ugliest version out, but what can it mean? Percy 
was a good boy.” 


, . .. 

72 THE MARTYR. 

Emily was still sobbing when he arose. 

He stood as if undecided a moment, then slowly 
turned toward the door. 

Just as he was going out, Emily turned her tear- 
stained face; “Are you going to Percy?” she ques- 
tioned brokenly. 

“Yes.” The answer was short and thick, and after 
it he abruptly left the room. 

Emily buried her face in her hands again and 
cried like a child, and as she sobbed there alone 
she thought of Lieutenant Winter. She wondered 
what he would say. She wished that he would 
come, for he had always been her good friend; and 
yet for the first time in her life she dreaded to 
meet him, for the words that he had spoken to her 
about the punch bowl sounded plainly in her ears'. 

After Percy had been in jail a few days, the bish- 
op, according to expectations, came to the home of 
Colonel Travik, to be a guest for a short time. 

The bishop was a large hearted man, with a kind 
word and a warm hand grasp for as many as 
chanced to come his way. 

For years he had been the friend of Colonel 
Travik. Many plans had they talked over together 
for the prosperity of the church and for the perpetu- 
ation of their political party. 


THE MARTYR. 73 

Percy had always been something of a favorite 
with the bishop. 

Long before he enjoyed the dignity of his high 
title, he had baptized the little Percy, and on all his 
numerous visits to the boy’s father he never forgot 
to have a little talk or sport with the lad. 

On his journey, before he reached the city of his 
destination, he had read a full account of the mur- 
der. As it had seemed to Emily that this man 
could not be Percy, so it seemed to the bishop, and 
a sharp pang went into his heart for the boy and the 
family. 

Because of the publicity given it, as well as for the 
crime itself, the disgraceful affair nearly stunned 
Colonel Travik at first. But he soon rallied. He 
had money and position. He was a pillar in the 
church militant and chairman of the state central 
committee of the political party triumphant. He 
would carry himself accordingly. 

When the bishop met his friend, he rested one 
hand on the broadcloth shoulder of the Colonel, and 
expressed his heartfelt sympathy, his utter sur- 
prise and his hope that the crime would ultimately 
result “in some inscrutable way” in “the boy’s bless- 
ing and God’s glory.” 

Later, Colonel Travik tooK the bishop with him 
to call upon Percy. 


74 the: martyr. 

Colonel Travik had some misgivings about this 
step, as the young criminal was on the defensive 
and a surly type at that, but trusting to the tact, 
which he had never known to fail the bishop^ he 
went with the hope that the visit would be pleasant 
and really do Percy some good. 

The change that had taken place in Percy since 
he had been in the service of his country was the 
source of continual wonder to both his father and 
Emily and was noticed immediately by the bishop.* 

■ Once inside the narrow cell he took the boy's 
hand and held it warmly. 

“I am glad to see you,” he said heartily, looking 
into his face. 

“Yes,” said Percy indifferently. 

‘‘Yes, I am, my boy. I am — but I am surprised and 
pained to find you here. How was it?” and he spoke 
very kindly. 

‘‘I got a little too full, I suppose, and in trying 
to defend my honor I overdid the thing; that’s all. 
I had no grudge against the fellow that I' cut, only 
that he was a fool and no good. I was just a little 
too full and my honor was at stake. You don’t hold 
a fellow responsible for an act committed when 
drunk, do you?” and he looked rather defiantly into 
the bishop’s face. 

Colonel Travik was very much annoyed. The Percy 


THE MARTYR. 75 

that had gone away had been a gentleman, but the 
manners of this Percy were shocking. 

As the bishop looked into the changed face of the 
boy of whom he had been so fond, a perceptible 
shade of sorrow passed over his face. 

“I could not justly hold that act a sin committed 
by a man when he knew nothing of it, but it is ap- 
parent that there is sin of the blackest kind in- 
volved. Your sin, my boy, was in drinking.” 

“Is it a sin to drink intoxicating liquors?” 

“In this day and age of the world it most surely 
is a sin.” 

“Is it?” Percy repeated sharply. 

“Certainly it is. It cannot be otherwise.” 

“Then why is the temptation to sin placed in the 
way of those who are as certain to fall into it as 
they are to breathe?” 

“Satan is ever active. The drink traffic is his 
mightiest ally. God’s way is the only safe way. A 
man should shun the wine cup as he values his life' 
— nay his immortal soul.” 

“Why do you let Satan’s pitfalls exist?” asked 
Percy pointedly. 

“My dear boy, I do not let them exist. I would 
give my right arm, today, if by so doing I could rid 
our country of the saloon with its blighting, damn- 
ing influences.” 


76 the: martyr. 

“You say you would, and our commander-in-chief 
sings fervently, and “ 

“The bishop looked up quickly and interrupted 
Percy by saying: 

“Our President, my boy, is one of the best of men. 
He is in no way to blame for the liquor traffic. I 
doubt not he would crush it tomorrow if it were in 
his power.” 

Percy looked steadily at the bishop a few minutes, 
then burst into a hollow, sarcastic laugh. 

“The President can’t keep saloons from Manila? 
The President can’t stop the sale of canteen beer to- 
morrow? You have a bishop’s heart but a common 
soldier has a better head. From the gayest colonel 
to the stupidest private, not a man in Manila but 
knows the power of the commander-in-chief of the 
army in territory under martial law. Not a man in 
Manila but knows that the President drinks when 
he pleases, where he pleases and as much as he 
pleases. They have adopted his method as theirs. 
The street cars are hung thick with posters adver- 
tising liquor; the air is heavy with its odor; it is 
everywhere in sight, and a man cannot walk a block 
without running into it. If it is a sin for me to 
drink is it a sin for the commander-in-chief of the 
army to drink, or is it not?” 

The bishop looked with fairly well concealed 


THE MARTYR. 77 

amazement on the young man and secretly wondered 
at the hardness of his heart. 

Colonel Travik’s indignation swelled at his son’s 
insulting words, and a hot remonstrance rose to 
his lips, but remembering his ill success the day of 
the reception, he choked it back. 

“Certainly, it is a sin. It is a sin to drink,’’ and 
the bishop spoke firmly. 

“It’s a sin. Aha! Then why do you pious folks 
keep insisting that it is not a sin? And this you do 
by declaring that the chiefest sinner in the bunch of 
army sinners is one of the purest and best of men.’’ 

After looking at Percy long enough to become sat- 
isfied in his own mind that he was still in posses- 
sion of his senses, the bishop sighed deeply. 

“It is useless to enter into a discussion. I am 
sorry for you, my boy. I would like to help you. 
Is there nothing I can do?’’ 

“Nothing.” 

"I shall remember you in my prayers.” 

Again Percy laughed that hollow, sarcastic laugh. 

“Thank you,” he said. “But I assure you that 
your prayers for ten thousand privates will be use- 
less as long as you protect the example of a drink- 
ing commander-in-chief with your infiuence.” 

“But you do not understand, my boy.” 

“No! No!” said Percy, impatiently, “I do not 


78 THE MARTYR, 

understand. I find myself in the place of the effect. 
Somewhere up the line the cause exists. If it has 
been whitewashed until it is not discernible, all 
right. It is there, just the same. No; I do not un- 
derstand. I do not want to.” 

Returning to the handsome home of Colonel Tra- 
vik, the bishop entered the library, and while wait- 
ing for his friend to join him looked over some 
current magazines. 

Carelessly turning the leaves, he stopped sud- 
denly, and a frown came across his brow. The 
heading of an advertisement, in bold black print, 
just such as had been used to announce to the 
world Percy’s crime, caught his eye. 

Just then Colonel Travik entered the room and 
the bishop read aloud as follow: “At Manila. When 
two hundred and nineteen carloads of beer were 
shipped to Manila, the world wondered. What in- 
dustry was this that shipped its products by mile 
and a half tfains to that remote spot? Yet that en- 
terprise has been repeated a hundred times over.” 

The bishop put the book down and said gravely: 
“Is it to be wondered that our boys come home to 
us as Percy has come?” 

Then he placed the tips of his index fingers to- 
gether in a point, and resting his hands on his 


THE MARTYR. 79 

bosom he looked up and said fervently: “My God, 
my God! How much longer must this curse go on?” 

After an impressive silence the bishop and the 
pillar in the church sat down to a solution of the 
problem, and to one of ordinary mental capacity 
their method was beyond comprehension, for they 
spent the entire evening in devising plans whereby 
the electoral vote of the state might be secured for 
the re-election of one whose administration stood 
secure for the advancement and protection of the 
liquor traflBc. 


/ 


80 


THE MARTYR. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“DON’T LET HIM GIT ME.” ^ ! 

On the south side of the river in that portion of 
the city where Emily Travik’s father had indulged 
in a prolonged debauch at the time of her birth, 
was a den. well known to certain members of the , 
state central committee. This particular den, ’ 
throughout the years, had survived the march of 
progress, but it was hidden from view by three 
high buildings that faced three different streets and 
it was connected with the outside world by a nar- 
row alley. 

Once inside this place it seemed to expand and 
stretch out like the segments of a worm, each por- 
tion being an apartment, one opening into the 
other and the outlet of all through the saloon. 

On one side of this dive was an open space en- 
closed by a rickety stable on one side, that sheltered 
mules at night and gave out odors, and on the other . 
sides by tall fences. 

This den was an important center, a ganglion 
of the body politic, and was well situated for the 
shady character of the work it accomplished. 

It was low and dark. Boards made a portion ^ 


THE martyr. 81 

of the iloor while the rest was bare earth pressed 
hard by the tramping of many feet. The bar was 
on the side with the bbard floor, and ranged against 
the wall on the other side were rows of barrels, 
some empty, more full. 

Measuring cups stood under the faucets and the 
air was heavy with the mingled odor of rank whis- 
ky and stable refuse. 

Perhaps at some remote time the keeper of this 
dive had been called by the name of Smith or 
Jones, but none of his patrons, either of the or- 
dinary or of the political kind, called him anything 
but “Pinlegs.** 

Pinlegs was a dwarf from his head down, and 
was from the appearance of his lower limbs- that 
his name came. His head was large and egg-shaped, 
the large part dipping in the rear giving One un- 
acquainted with him the impression that it might 
at any moment pull him down. 

This head was covered with a growth of wiry 
red hair that stuck out in every direction like the 
unnumbered feelers of some unknown sea urchin. 
His eyes were of a dim uncertain color, the whites 
being stained with patches like weak tobacco juice. 
His nose was thin and pointed, and by a certain ap- 
pearance hinted that it was created solely for 
catarrhal purposes, but as this nose was strictly a 


82 THK MARTYR, 

private institution no person saw fit to suggest the 
use of a handkerchief. His mouth corresponded in 
size with his head, having a tendency in the same 
direction, and it was fitted with a double row of 
snags. Between his upper lip and his nose a small 
brick-tinted moustache with the same inquisitive 
turn to the hairs noticeable on his head, rose and 
fell rapidly as he used his lip to mop down the 
particles of tobacco that stranded in the snags. 

His neck stood smartly out from a blue gingham 
shirt three sizes too large and collarless. 

His feet were of no mean dimensions, and the 
tendency he had of running his shoes over at the 
heels made the dimensions look meaner than they 
were. His hands were red across the knuckles and 
grimy at the ends, but it was his finger nails that 
were the pride and consolation of his whole anat- 
omy. These were a quarter of an inch long and 
like the talons of a hawk in toughness. Being 
small of stature, he could hardly hope to preserve 
order at all times in his dive without some weapon 
of defense, and he found these nails as effective as 
they were novel. 

Many a poor wretch had awakened from a drunk- 
en slumber to find himself sleeping with the mules 
and to wonder at the sudden and peculiar soreness 
that had come upon his neck. 


83 


THE MARTYR. 

There were some other striking peculiarities 
about the personality of this dive keeper that made 
him greatly to be desired as a political ally, and 
that made him admired as well as feared by his 
patrons; and lest his nature should develop and 
show itself in an unpleasant manner, let the reader 
withhold harsh judgment, remembering that he was 
a man of “good moral character.” His motives may 
be misconstrued, and his actions may seem to con- 
tradict this statement, yet he has the statement in 
black and white, signed and sealed by the govern- 
ment, and he who disputes the government’s judg- 
ment or authority is a “sower of strife and a stirrer 
up of sedition.” 

On the evening when Colonel Travik and his dis- 
tinguished guest, the bishop, in a library filled with 
religious journals and hymn books, with their el- 
bows all but resting on a massive morocco Bible, 
sat down to solve certain perplexing political prob- 
lems, Pinlegs also sat down on an empty beer keg 
to study certain knotty political questions; and 
strange as it may seem, the problems of the three 
were the same and the results hoped for by the 
three schemers were identical. 

Pinlegs was not ignorant of the existence of the 
bishop, neither was the bishop ignorant of the ex- 
istence of the dive keeper, though it must be 


84 THE MARTYR* 

stated in the bishop’s behalf that he had not been 
made acquainted with the dive keeper’s plans of 
action. Pinlegs did not deem it wise to call in 
counsel. Counsel of his own stripe might claim a 
division of the spoils, and counsel of the bishop’s 
high morals might have questioned the methods 
used which would have been equally fatal for the 
hopes and plans of both, bishop and dive keeper. 

For a moment the dive was quiet. Pinlegs had 
just added to the already immense cud in his mouth 
from a fresh plug of tobacco when the weird figure 
of an old woman shambled through the door. 

Like Pinlegs, she might have had a name in her 
early infancy, but in dive circles she was known 
as “Old Sal.” 

Pinlegs hastily thrust his plug of tobacco into 
his hip pocket and leaned back twisting his lips 
with a peculiar revolving motion so violent that his 
ears felt the force of it and repeated the motion on 
a smaller scale. 

“Rum!” demanded Old Sal fiercely, glaring at Pin- 
legs and pointing to the row of barrels. “Rum! 
Rum! Give me rum and give it to me quick!” 

Pinlegs rose leisurely and held out his hand. 

“Fork over,” he said. 

“Got nuthin’.” 

“Git out a’ here, then,” and a peculiar hiss- 


THE MARTYR. 85 

ing noise sounded between the snags as he pointed 
toward the door. 

“I’ll pay— sure I will.” 

“Where’ll you git it?” 

“Work, work, till the bones drop out my fingers, 
fer a bit more rum.” 

Pinlegs swore an oath. 

“Hurry!” she gasped. 

Pinlegs gave his shirt a couple of savage thrusts 
into his diminutive pants and shook his hand by 
way of calling her attention to the door. 

“Git out ’a here, you old fool— git out ’a here. 
That work song’s no go!” 

“Rum! More rum! I’m all a-fire inside! The 
devils are at work. Give me rum, rum,” and she 
swung her long bony arms frantically and ended 
her appeal with a long shrill howl that every bung 
hole in the dive seemed to mock and every empty 
keg to echo. 

Pinlegs stepped in front of her and thrust his 
long keen nails close in her face. 

“See!” he chuckled. “You know ’em. Git outen 
here, you old devil, or I'll try ’em on you. I’ve 
helped out wimmin that was heftier than you.” 

Old Sal eyed them indifferently. 

“Them’s sharp and chokes, but not no worse than 
when the innards all want rum. I want rum. I 


86 MARTYR, 

will have rum,” and she began at the neck to un- 
fasten her dress waist. 

Pinlegs jerked her hand down. 

“Keep your rags — what they good for?” 

“It’s all I got Take it— take everything— give me 
rum.” 

Old Sal dropped her voice to a coaxing whine 
and stepping close to Pinlegs, put her hand on his 
arm and leered in his face. 

He struck her- arm and moved aside. 

The wretched woman rapped her chest with one 
bony hand: 

9 

“Devils in here — fighting devils — fiery devils — they 
all want rum^ RUM!” and her voice rose to an ear- 
piercing shriek. Then she stopped suddenly. 

“Pinlegs, Pinlegs, I forgot. I’ve got little ‘Coots.’ 
Take her and give me that rum quick,” and she 
started toward the bar. 

“What’s the skinny brat good fer?” he demanded, 
stepping before her and seizing her by the arm. 

“Good fer? Good fer a drink of rum!” she cried, 
trying to break away from him. “Put her in there,” 
and old Sal pointed to an adjoining room from which 
proceeded various noises — dancing, shuffling of feet, 
the notes of a wheezy violin and now and then 
snatches of coarse singing and laughter. 

Pinlegs reflected. 


THE MARTYR. 87 

“The brat’s too ugly and skinny to go in there,” 
he said to himself. Yet he let up enough on his 
hold of the hag to give rise to the hope that he 
might accept her offer. 

“She kin dance,” suggested the unnatural mother. 

Was it because he was a man of good moral 
character that he hesitated before accepting the 
girl in exchange for the liquor, or was it because 
he possessed the kindness of heart that usually ac- 
companies a good moral character that at last he 
decided to relieve the sufferings of the groaning 
woman? 

“Wait,” he commanded after he had released her. 
“I’ll figger,” and with the same care he had used 
a short time previous in dealing with matters in 
which the state central committee was interested, 
he again seated himself on the keg and made a 
few marks on the damp floor with his finger nail. 

After what seemed to the hag an age of miserable 
waiting he slowly arose, crossed the earthen floor, 
and setting one of the dirtiest of the pint cups un- 
der one of the blackest of the black barrels, he 
turned the faucet and the pint of vile rum bubbled 
out that was paid for the girl. 

Old Sal snatched the cup and after swallowing the 
liquor in great gulps grew good natured. She tried 
to stroke Pinlegs as one would a cat and called 


88 THE MARTYR. 

him “kind Pinlegs” when he hit her with his fist. 
Shortly she settled down into a long sleep. 

Now while this business transaction had been tak- 
ing place, the article of merchandise involved had 
heard it all through a crack, and the half wild heart 
in her unkempt body had fiuttered madly, for though 
not yet a woman she was not a child, and she all 
but knew what the life was, to which old Sal had 
given her over. The girl was in one of the 
shanty rooms before mentioned which opened into 
the saloon. She feared Pinlegs greatly, yet she de- 
termined to escape; so, watching her chance, as soon 
as his back was turned, she made a dash for liberty. 

Like lightning she bounded past him, but the 
ever alert Pinlegs heard her and with a quick spring 
followed. 

Then came a chase. From the dark corners of the 
alley, boys and girls, with a sprinkling of ^ men, 
swarmed in hot pursuit, calling wildly and throw- 
ing cans and empty bottles; but they could not come 
up with little “Coots.” She felt that she was run- 
ning for her life, and she ran well. 

One by one her pursuers dropped out of the race, 
as she neared the opening to the public street, and 
finally, looking back, she saw that she was alone. 
Yet she ran on until, nearly exhausted, she sat down 
on the steps of a church with a tall steeple. 


the: martyr. 89 

She had rested but a moment when she caught 
sight of a policeman and, not having a doubt but 
that he was pursuing her with the intention of 
taking her back to Pinlegs, she sprang up, and, 
blinded with terror^ rushed into the street directly 
in front of a powerful black horse driven by two 
gentlemen, and the next instant he was upon her. 

The buggy stopped and the gentlemen got out. 
One of them wore a uniform. The girl saw this and 
not noticing that he was a soldier cried wildly: 
“Don’t take me back to him! Kill me! Kill me! 
Don’t let him git me!’’ 

The gentleman spoke kindly to her and taking a 
linen handkerchief from his pocket stanched the 
flow of blood that came to her lips. Then the police-i 
man came, and soon little “Coots’’ was taken in 
an ambulance where she was for. a time at least out 
of the reach of Pinlegs. 

Emily Travik belonged to a circle of King’s 
Daughters that once a week, in turn, took flowers to 
the patients in the Charity Hospital. 

Now it so happened that a few days after little 
“Coots” had met her accident, it came Emily’s time 
to visit the sick. 

Whether or not Lieutenant Winter knew this is 
immaterial, at any rate just as she was starting 


90 the: martyr. 

with her basket of flowers he came along with his 

black horse and volunteered to drive her to the 

hospital. 

Emily’s face lit with a happy smile for it was the 
flrst time since Percy’s trouble that he had taken 
her anywhere and she was secretly afraid that he 
was displeased with her about the punch bowl. 

During their ride he told her of the accident of 
the terrifled child, and after a walk through the 
hospital, they stopped for a short time beside the 
little sufferer’s cot. The doctor said the child would 
not get well, and when she had been told this she 
laughed with joy to think that her escape from Pin- 
legs would be complete, but she liked to talk, and 
standing there Lieutenant Winter and Emily heard 
a broken account, in an uncouth way, of life as it 
is lived in the byways of some of our cities. 

This talk was not one calculated for a mixed 
audience, nor to suit the requirements of an esthetic 
taste, but it was horribly interesting and bore the 
stamp of truth. From time to time, as the girl 
talked Lieutenant Winter glanced at the fair face 
of the young woman standing at the foot of the 
white cot He was more interested in her than in 
any other woman in the world — and more disap- 
pointed. There was something frivolous about her 
that jarred his senses sorely, for he was every inch 


THE MARTYR 


91 


a man; and while the graceful surface ripples 
please a man, depth is necessary to anchor his af- 
fections. He believed that she possessed this depth, 
but since he had known her last she had outgrown 
it or had so successfully learned the stylish art of 
veneering that it was hidden. 

“Poor little wretch," she said of “Coots," after 
they had started for home. 

“I wonder if the state is doing her a kindness in 
trying to save her life?" said Lieutenant Winter. 

“Of course the state is doing its duty. It would 
be a crime to let her die.” 

“The state will kill her in the end, or let it be 
done, which amounts to the same thing.” 

“How can such things be helped?" 

“The state could as effectually stop the sale of 
poisoned beverages as it does the sale of poisoned 
beef; but if it will not do that, it should make it 
unlawful for a drunkard to marry." 

“Reforms would stop then. I think half the 
people I visit in the hospital attribute their trouble 
to the use of liquor, directly or indirectly." 

“Hereditary taints cannot be reformed out of peo- 
ple any more than consumption can. There is 
nothing so powerful on earth as an inherited ap- 
petite. I say it is a crime for such to marry." 

“If you loved a woman very, very dearly and 


92 THE MARTYR. 

found that her grandfather had been a drunkard, 

would it be a crime for you to marry her?” 

Lieutenant Winter had not thought of this. He 
shot a swift glance at Emily, but evidently she was 
speaking of possibilities in the abstract. 

He* was silent a moment then answered slowly: 

“You have asked a question too hard for me. 
If I loved a woman as a man should love but one 
woman, and I found things as you say, I should— 
I do not know what I should do.” 

Emily laughed. 

“You know what the other man should do though. 
Do not lecture me any more on punch bowls. A 
soldier should not hesitate to choose between the 
woman and the crime.” 

Then Emily talked on and on, growing more flip- 
pant, and at times speaking unkindly of certain of 
her acquaintances who might or might not have in- 
herited an appetite. 

Lieutenant Winter grew more and more disgusted 
with every sentence that passed her lips. A rush 
of words came to his mind but he held them back 
and wondered if she knew anything of her father. 
He had heard once that he had been a drunkard. 

As they neared the gate she turned to him, notic- 
ing perhaps for the first time that she had monopo- 
lized the conversation. 


THE MARTYR. 93 

“You are unnaturally quiet. What are you think- 
ing of?” 

Lieutenant Winter assisted her from the buggy 
before he answered. 

“I was wondering,” he said with that tone of 
voice that Emily had heard before. 

Then he lifted his hat and, without waiting for 
the astonished girl to answer, he drove away. 




94 


THE MARTYR, 


CHAPTER VII, 


'AND EMILY KNOWS NOTHING OF HER » 
FATHER?” 




The day after he visited the hospital with Emily 
Lieutenant Winter went to the jail to call upon 
Percy, determined to find, if possible, something of 
Emily’s father, for he was satisfied that Percy 
knew. 

He had broached the subject several times before, 
but as Percy had seemed indisposed to talk upon 
it he had let the matter go. 

He found Percy in his cell sitting on an unpainted 
chair, with his feet propped against the wall, smok- 
ing a cigarette. A half-empty dark glass bottle 
stood on the fioor near by. 

As his friend entered, Percy, without offering to 
get up, invited him in and motioned him to a seat 
on the side of his bunk. 

Lieutenant Winter gave the bottle an unfriendly 
glance and sat down. 

“I should think, Percy, that you had about learned. ’ 
the lesson of the bottle. Honestly, are you never 
going to stop the course you are taking?” 


1 .- 


the martyr 95 

"I'd like to," said Percy with a yawn, "but truth 
compels me to state that I cannot” 

"You can. Such talk is bosh.” 

"I say I cannot. When a fellow gets used to 
liquor, his system requires it and without it he suf- 
fers.” 

"I know better than that and so do you. Our jun- 
gle days proved quite the contrary. Didn’t we dig 
through banana groves and wade through rice 
fields up to our waists in water? Didn’t we plough 
through mud and stinking slime, day after day, dig- 
ging trenches and throwing up embankments, and 
were not those same embankments our beds at 
night? Yet we stood it and you were twice the 
man you are to-day. A better regiment was never 
seen so long as whisky was kept out of reach. It 
swells my pride yet to think of those first months 
of our campaign. We proved what other nations 
have proclaimed that the best army on earth is the 
army that abstains from the use of strong drink. 
It has proved that the best soldier is the soberest 
and what is true of a soldier is equally true of a 
man. You can get along without your filthy liquor.” 

"When I’m in the jungle and the drink is in the 
bay, yes. It’s a case of ‘have to’ then, but when 
it’s within easy reach and I know it was put there 
for my benefit, why, I’ll aid the consumption of 


‘96 


THE MARTYR. 


home products — you bet I will. Don’t preach, my 
friend. A clerical brother called a few days ago 
and fed me enough of gospel to do a month.” 

“Has there been a preacher to call on you?” 

“The Colonel brought the bishop out to see me.” 

Lieutenant Winter was silent a short time. 

“What did he say to finding you in this place?” 
' Percy grunted. “Said a lot of stuff. Said he was 
shocked, remarked something about the pleasure it 
would give him to lose his strong right arm in a 
sacrificial way for the overthrow of what he terms 
an ‘ungodly traffic;’ and he’d remember me in his 
prayers, etc.” 

“That is a man I have the utmost confidence in. 
He is a good man.” 

“Good? Yes,” said Percy, “if that’s all there is to 
it, but he’s got a poor apparatus in his head for 
figuring out cause and effect. He cannot see, to 
save his ecclesiastical life, that he is in any way 
responsible as an individual for the conditions that 
he calls ‘sin.* ” 

“Neither can any one else.” 

“Don’t act fool now. You know a thing or two. 
Who sent that shipload of liquor to Manila to lie 
like a hound in waiting for the boys in the 
trenches?” 


THE MARTYR. 97 

“Who sent the liquor? Well! Certainly not the 
bishop. A soulless monopoly sent it.” 

“Sure. Who let the monopoly send it?” 

“The home government gave its consent.” 

“You are right. Who says what shall and what 
shall not go into territory under martial law?” 

“The commander-in-chief of the army.” 

“Well, the commander-in-chief of the army let 
that and fifty times more of the dirtiest stuff that 
ever filtered through a man’s throat cross the ocean 
and lie there for the boys in blue. He LET it be 
there. HE LET it. Do you get that?” 

“Yes, but what you say involves the President. 
Stick to your text, you were speaking of the bishop.” 

“The bishop holds up the President’s hands.” 

“There you are mistaken. He cannot do it. His 
church has said that the traffic can never be legal- 
ized without sin and it would be breaking faith 
with his belief if such a thing were true.” 

“He has openly declared that the President, in his 
opinion, is one of the purest and best of men. That 
may or may not mean an endorsement. I may or 
may not know the meaning of English.” 

The two were silent for a time. Percy blew great 
clouds of poison smoke through his nostrils and 
watched it curl upward and flatten against the low, 
dark ceiling. 

Lieutenant Winter was lost in thought. 


98 the martyr. 

"Things are so twisted,” he said at length, "if a 
man only knew which was head and which was 
tail he might be able to form an opinion. The 
President is a Christian, of that I am satisfied; and 
yet if the arch foe of the human race had been at 
the head of affairs in the Philippines, the moral sit- 
uation could not have been much worse. The 
churches get mighty wrathy and protest, but to 
save me I cannot see that they have done a thing 
in the last five years toward stopping the thing they 
resolve against so valiantly. A Christian country 
forces its civilization upon a heathen people and 
makes them ten fold worse by the modern sins it 
introduces. Yet^ we should not judge men. We 
cannot see their motives.” 

"That's my belief exactly. The President allows 
whisky selling in Manila; he sanctions the can- 
teen saloon and he drinks when and where he 
pleases and yet there are a set of narrow minded 
folks that question his motives and of course mis- 
construe them. I am in the same box with the 
President. I object to being continually pecked on 
because I choose to drink a little. Why cannot 
people let me alone? You are slow enough to deal 
with other people’s motives, let mine alone. Hand 
me that bottle please, I must take a swallow for 
my stomach’s sake.” 


THi: MARTYR. 99 

Lieutenant Winter hesitated, then pushed the bot- 
tle toward Percy with his boot toe. 

Percy caught it up and laughed. 

“Afraid it will poison you? You’ll end yet by be- 
ing a bishop.” 

A frown passed over the face of the Lieutenant. 
He had been taught to respect religion and its min- 
isters and Percy’s vulgar familiarity annoyed him. 

“Percy,” he said gravely, “it is both ungentle- 
manly and cowardly for you to speak as you do of 
your father’s friend.” 

Percy laughed again. 

“Not cowardly,” he said, “for I said it to his face.” 
“What?” 

“Yes. I don’t remember the exact words, but I 
told him the commander-in-chief of the army set 
the pace and the boys in the trenches followed. He 
observed that I did not understand and I don’t. If 
it’s right for the President to drink it’s right for 
me, and if it’s wrong for me it’s wrong for the 
President; and the bishop should say so and quit 
beating around the bush. There are lots of things 
I cannot understand and never expect to. You see, 
my dear Winter, I’m not a bishop. 

Percy drew a pencil from his pocket and began 
to inscribe his name upon his chair. 

Lieutenant Winter watched him and his mind 


ILttlCu 


100 THE MARTYR, 

went from the vexed subject of bishops to the 
trouble of his friend and he thought of the long, 
dreary days he must pass in confinement. 

“Are you tired staying here?” he asked presently. 

Percy looked up quickly. 

“Tired? I’d take this chair this minute add burst 
the bars and run for liberty even though every gun 
in the jail were leveled at me, only that the chair 
would mash to splinters and I would but be the 
worse for something to sit on. Stay here a day, 
and then ask a fellow if he’s tired! I’ll be glad 
when it comes time for me to breathe fresh air 
again, but that will not be until fall I suppose. 
Goodness! What a time to wait! But it is neces- 
sary. Long delay, short sentence. That’s justice 
up to date.” 

“What sort of a sentence do you hope for?” 

“No sentence. I expect to get out of here.” 

“What did you say?” 

“I expect to get out of here. I didn’t mean to 
KILL that fellow any more than you mean to kill 
me, and as for the funds, the Colonel will see to 
that.” 

Lieutenant Winter refiected. “Well Percy, I love 
you like a brother, but I hope you’ll get a sentence. 
I wouldn’t take your chances if you get out of this 
affair scott free. It is such justice as you hope for 


THE MARTYR. 101 

that is bringing mob law into such alarming 
usage.” 

Percy dug away at the chair and for a time the 
scratch of his pencil was the only sound that 
broke the stillness of the cell. 

Lieutenant Winter arose from his uncomfortable 
seat and stretched himself. When he sat down he 
was nearer Percy than before. 

“Percy,” he said, “I want you to tell me some- 
thing regarding Emily’s father.” 

“Interested, are you?” 

“I have always been interested in her. Now I 
want to know something of her father. Does she 
know anything of him?” 

“Not a breath and let that man beware who tells 
her, if the Colonel finds it out. I don’t know much, 
but what little I do know has been my portion of the 
family skeleton, and I have kept it well hidden, but 
I’ll share my secret. What do you want to know?” 

“All that you know.” 

“Do you know anything about him?” 

“Nothing but that he was — that he drank.” 

“That’s about all there is to tell.” 

“Did you ever see him?” 

“When I was a kid. He came to our house to 
see my sister. He gave me a box of candy once 
that has helped me to remember him. The Colonel 


102 THE MARTYR. 

objected to his visits, but he came just the same and 
finally married my sister. After that I went a few 
times to their house. I don’t remember much about 
it, only that it seemed small to me, had a bay win- 
dow, with a singing bird in a gilt cage, and that 
my sister was always smiling. Emily is her living 
image. I can see my sister yet when Emily smiles 
a certain way. 

“One day she came home and did not go back. 
She walked to the gate a great many times looking 
for someone — him I suppose. The next thing I re- 
member is that she was in a coffin in the parlor and 
that there was a baby upstairs. That was Emily. 

“He came while she was in the coffin, and I ro 
member I thought, as he stood looking in at her. 
that he was dead, too. 

“I remember how he left the house and how 
angry the Colonel was. Later the funeral took 
place. I don’t recall much of it only that, looking 
back as we left the cemetery, I saw him standing 
by the grave. The second time I looked he was 
still there and when the Colonel glanced out and 
saw what I was looking at, he jerked the blinds 
down. 

“I believe he reformed a dozen times after my 
sister died, but ended it all by making a full-fledged 
beast of himself and then disappearing.'* 

“Where did he go?” 


THi: MARTYR. 


103 

“I don’t know. We were not allowed to talk of 
him. He made so much trouble in our family that 
his name was held as a disgrace. Not content with 
marring our peace and family honor, he spoiled the 
finest tombstone in Mount Aubery cemetery.” 

“What did he do to the tombstone?” 

Percy laughed. 

“I don’t know how long after my sister’s death — 
it was maybe a year — maybe two or three — that we 
drove out there one time to find a blood stain on 
the white base of the stone. The Colonel jumped 
out of the carriage and after looking half a sec- 
ond sent me to summon the sexton. I remember 
the important feeling yet that swelled within me as 
I went out with a message in which a blood stain 
was involved. 

“The sexton said the young husband had been 
there the day before in an awful fit of tremens 
and in a mad chase around the monument had fal- 
len, cutting his head. He was taken to the hospital. 

“I never saw the Colonel more worked up. He 
ordered the stain scrubbed and sandpapered and 
polished, but it was there to stay until the judg- 
ment day I reckon. Anyhow it’s there yet, rather 
pale but well defined. 

“Do you know, that man was the biggest fool I 
ever heard of? He chained himself to a tree once. 


104 THE MARTYR. 

for some unknown reason, and then threw the key 
away and yelled for someone to come and unlock 
him. A hoy came to the rescue and had his wits 
nearly frightened out, but finally found the key in 
the grass and let the fool go free. We got it straight 
for the boy’s mother told it to Emily’s nurse, but 
the Colonel was so furious that he forbade us ever 
to speak of it and we heard no more. That was 
long ago.” 

Lieutenant Winter got up and began pacing the 
narrow apartment. 

“Did you ever hear that?” Percy inquired look- 
ing at him. 

“I saw a man once chained to a tree and let him 
loose.” 

“You 'did? When?” 

“Away back when I was a boy. When we lived 
out the other side of the old Half Way place. 
Strange I never mentioned it.” 

“That was the very place. So you saw him; how 
was it?” 

“He was a raving maniac, and his only cr^’’ was 
‘Hell — whisky!’ The wards were Hzkad togatliar a-id 
burnt into my mind.” 

“Golly, but wasn’t he an idiot?” murmured the 
prisoner. 

“Where did he go after he left here?” asked the 
visitor. 


THE MARTYR. 


105 


“I said I did not know.” 

“Is he dead?” 

‘‘Dead? Do such men die?” 

‘‘I should think he would be dead. A man can- 
not stand many attacks of the disease that man 
had.” 

“He would have been dead, but, you see, he re- 
formed.” 

“Did what?” 

“Reformed or did something, anyhow, he’s not 
dead.” 

“Where is he?” 

“All over everywhere making a fool of himself.” 

“I suppose so. What is he doing?” 

“Lecturing on temperance,” and Percy leaned 
back in his chair and laughed heartily. “See the 
point?” he queried, “HE’S lecturing on TEMPER- 
ANCE after cutting his head half off on a tomb- 
stone and doing other imbecile acts while fight- 
ing snakes.” 

“Perhaps he is making a man of himself.” 

‘•All right. We will not quarrel. The Colonel 
thinks it is a fool he is making, and he is chair- 
man of the .state central committee and president 
of the board of trustees, therefore in a position to 
know what he is talking about. 

“When lie heard of the doing of his son-in-law 


106 THE MARTYR, 

he bristled and was more injured than when in 
bygone days the same son-in-law had indulged in 
the cup. I expect though that it is partly because 
as a lecturer he mixes with politics and preaches 
ballot box doctrine. The Colonel does not believe 
in mixing politics and religion, nor ‘vice versa’ 
though you might think he did to hear him pray,”i 

“And Emily knows nothing of her father?” 

Not that we know of. She used to inquire, but 
the Colonel put a stop to it and T guess she has 
given the matter up.” 

“Strange her father does not make himself knowxi 
to her.” 

“He got enough of that. He did try to get her 
once, but got orders from headquarters not to try it 
again and he has respected the mandate as far as 
I know.” 

“What is Emily’s name?” 

“Her father’s name is Wayne — Theodore Wayne.” 

“Wayne— Wayne. The name sounds as familiar 
to me as my own.” 

“Been reading the papers I take it. He keeps 
his name at the mast head and they do say that 
oratorically speaking, his like has not been since 
the days of Daniel Webster.” 

Lieutenant Winter, who was yet pacing the nar- 
row room, stopped suddenly. 


THE MARTYR. 


107 

“Theodore Wayne!” he said in a tone of the ut- 
most surprise. “Percy, you are not talking of 
Theodore Wayne, the reformer?” 

“Yes— the same big fool. You see he was a law- 
yer once and a good one, too. If he’d attended to 
his business after he reformed, he might have been 
something, but shooting off into political temper- 
ance — what will it amount to? Polks flock like 
sheep to hear him, but a well-loved man is equally 
hated. Somebody will shoot his devoted head off 
some day, and that will be the' end of him.” 

“Emily Wayne — someone should tell her of her 
father.” 

“Do you want the job?” 

“I would not mind it. She is not the girl I think 
her if she does not glory in his record.” 

“No glory, according to the way the Colonel looks 
at it.” 

“Everybody does not see it in that light.” 

“Safe to bet Emily will. I hoped she would not 
be like every other woman, but I guess she will.” 

“You say she is like her mother?” 

“To a dot.” 

“The mother loved this man — so will her 
daughter. Emily must know of her father.” 


108 


THE MARTYR 


CHAPTER VIII. > 

“MY MOTHER LOVED HIM.” 

When Lieutenant Winter left the jail, after his 
interview with Percy, he went out fully determined 
that Emily should soon know who her father was; 
but, as is often the case with intentions, from time 
to time the matter was postponed until spring had 
passed and summer come. 

During the summer Percy had fever and was 
moved from his cell into more comfortable quar- 
ters. His recovery was slow and he looked forward 
with the eagerness of a child to the time when he 
should again be free. 

As the summer advanced, political matters grew 
interesting. The campaign promised to be one of 
the most exciting ever known in the state. Aside 
from the presidential election, which itself always 
created more or less of feeling, there was before 
the people for consideration an amendment which 
if enacted would put poison beverages, as an article 
of merchandise, on a par with poison meat. 

Forces of all political complexion were in battle 
array. The party to which Colonel Travik gave his 


THE MARTYR. 109 

undivided support had suffered a serious split on 
account of the distribution of political pie. One- 
half the delegates to the state convention locked the 
other half out and when they at last gained access 
a bitter controversy followed which came near end- 
ing in a free-for-all fight. Men stood in their chairs 
and yelled. Two men in their frenzy to make them- 
selves heard mounted the piano and scuffled to such 
an extent that one fell off and hit the fioor with that 
sickening thud peculiar to political conventions. 
While the confusion was at its height, some evil 
minded person turned out the lights and the po- 
lice were summoned. 

This was indeed a trying position for a pillar of 
the church to be placed in, but striving to carry out 
the injunction which says “having done all to stand”, 
Colonel Travik, whose seat as chairman was being 
contested, held it, knowing that the bishop as well 
as the “faction” would rejoice at his ultimate suc- 
cess. When the matter had at last been settled by 
a profuse application of political cement. Colonel 
Travik came out with flying colors, still chairman 
of the state central committee. 

About this time the announcement v/as made that 
Theodore Wayne would “stump” the state* in the 
Interests of the amendment. 


110 the: martyr. 

This announcement, while not wholly a surprise, 
created much unfavorable comment among the ranks 
of the party of which Colonel Travik was the able 
head. 

Until the rupture in their ranks, the plans of Colo- 
nel Travik, the bishop and Pinlegs had proceeded 
with the utmost harmony and it was deeply to be 
regretted that so soon after the healing of the 
breach such a powerful force should appear on the 
scene to confuse the minds of the people. 

Several meetings were called and the matter was 
discussed by the cemented factions. The burden 
of the reformer’s cry was “let there be light”, and it 
invariably followed that there was light. A fair 
hearing of his cause meant converts, and, as there 
were no voters to spare, it became necessary to 
to establish a systematic course to create prejudice 
before his arrival. 

To this end editorial space war purchased; doc- 
tored statistics were given prominent places; the 
past of the reformer was in a degree unearthed; 
stories were told of many bad habits still practiced 
by him in secret; a fable gained circulation relat- 
ng to vast fortunes he was reaping from his lectures, 
and ever and anon preachers lent their voices, to 
give religious tone to the chorus of disapproval. 

There was at most of these different club meetings 


/ 


THi; MARTYR. Ill 

a silent, uncouth person, who nevertheless, it was 
well understood was an important factor in the 
game of politics. 

This was Pinlegs, disburser of funds. 

When ways and means were being devised by the 
chairman and the deacon to kill the influence of the 
great reformer, this person listened with interest, 
chewing his cud violently and stirring his aggres- 
sive hair from time to time with his horny Angers. 

Soon after Theodore Wayne entered the state, 
Emily Travik went to pay a short visit to a friend 
who lived in a railroad village at no great distance. 

While she was in this town, the great reformer 
spoke there. 

Emily cared little for temperance, but because 
every other person in the village turned out to hear 
him she went also, and because she had a sweet 
voice she had consented to sing a solo. 

The meeting was held in a church which was, on 
the night of the lecture, packed. On the outside 
around every window men stood a dozen deep and 
the vestibule was full to overflowing. 

When Emily entered, the speaker sat by a small 
table resting his elbow upon it and shading his eyes 
with his hand. 

' She glanced at him, then looked away. He did not 
interest her. 



112 THE MARTYR. 

Throughout the opening hymn he still sat thus, 
resting or praying. 

Then Emily sang. 

As the first strains sounded, the orator dropped 
his hand from his eyes and looked up suddenly as if 
he had been called. 

Spellbound he gazed as the song continued. 

“Who is the singer?” he inquired of a man near 
him who had arranged the program. 

“Miss Travik, of B .” 

Again he looked at the girl. Then he covered his 
eyes as before and sat quietly through the song, but 
the man next him noticed that his hand was trem- 
bling. 

When the last vibrating note had died away, the 
speaker was announced. 

For a moment he paused while people waited, then 
he rose, stepped quickly to the front, and faced 
his audience. 

His first few sentences were faltering and rather 
disconnected, but, as he spoke, some wonderful 
power seemed to lift him out of himself and bear 
him up. Like tireless, certain missiles from some 
rapidly revolving machine of war, his mighty truths 
were hurled forth, quivering with pathos, bounding 
with passion, sharp with irony, to fasten in the 
hearts of the people. 


the; martyr. 113 

The audience sat like a . man. Many ignorantly 
wondered at the ease with which he swayed men’s 
emotions, others who had learned “the Secret of the 
Most High” knew that he did battle with the Sword 
of the Spirit. 

As soon as Emily had finished her song, she turned 
her attention to some one at her side, but as the 
voice of the speaker reached her ear she turned 
quickly, fully expecting to recognize some one she 
knew. 

A puzzled look of disappointment came into her 
face. 

The man was familiar, yet strange. 

His features were clearly cut and in the lines en- 
durance and suffering and longing had traced them- 
selves, while on one pale cheek a scar was visible. 

It was this scar that caught and held Emily’s at- 
tention and at times seemed to awaken a dream 
that had long lain forgotten behind the grey mist 
of the past. 

She repeated his name to herself a number of 
times, but it brought no light, for, thanks to her 
grandfather’s watchful care, it was a strange name. 

Throughout the lecture she sat hearing the voice 
but not- the words; seeing a face she knew 'and yet 
did not know. 

The clapping of many hands aroused her, from 


114 TH£; MARTYR, 

time to time, but immediately she dropped again 
into her reflections. More than once by some strange 
fatality their eyes met, and at such times a thrill 
went throbbing through her and she strained her 
memory to the utmost, for she seemed upon the 
threshold of some long forgotten place. 

Immediately at the close of the lecture hundreds 
rushed toward the platform to shake the man’s 
hand. Among this number was Emily. She had 
never* done such a thing in her life; but her de- 
sire to look closely into the strange face and press 
the man’s hand overcame her timidity. 

But Emily with the others was doomed to disap- 
pointment that night. The speaker had retired im- 
mediately. 

Long into the night Emily wrestled with the puz- 
zling question, yet the face of the man remained 
as strangely familiar and as strangely strange as 
when she first saw it. 

After midnight she fell asleep. Toward morning 
she suddenly awakened for it seemed she was a child 
and a man was standing her gently on the ground. 

She had been sitting on the knee of this man. He 
had held her hand and stroked her hair. She had 
seen tears in his eyes and had heard him say “I am 
your father”. Then the scar came clearly out to 
view and she had kissed him. 


THE MARTYR. 116 

Emily suddenly started up in the bed and looked 
around, but the room was dark. The first pale grey 
of early morning marked the window, the house was 
quiet, and she knew that she had dreamed, but she 
also knew that the man in her dream and the man 
whom she had heard speak were the same. 

The mystery deepened. Memory could define noth- 
ing; but her heart went out strangely to the man, 
and she longed to see more of him, to hear him 
again, and knowing that he was to be in her own 
city two nights she determined to return and see 
him. She also determined, although she had been 
often put off, to learn from her grandfather who 
her father was. 

Arriving home the day of the first lecture she went 
to her grandfather at once with her question. 

After explaining to her that he was unusually 
busy, he inquired, rather more sharply than he was 
wont to speak, why she had so suddenly returned at 
this time and why she had inquired concerning her 
father. 

“Grandpa,” Emily said impatiently, “I came home 
to hear Theodore Wayne. He is wonderful! But I 
came, too, to find out who my father is. You have 
been promising a long time that you would tell me. 
Tell me now.” 

Colonel Travik frowned. 

“Why now?” he questioned. 


116 the martyr* 

“I am of age. I should have known before. Is my 
father such a disgraceful character that the knowl- 
edge of him will forever make me miserable?” 

‘T have kept all knowledge of him from you for 
your own peace of mind.” 

“My peace of mind demands that I know who my 

father is. Perhaps my father loves me. Perhaps ” 

Emily hesitated, thinking of the man in the dream, 
“Perhaps I love my father.” 

“Perhaps,” said Colonel Travik dryly. “I hardly 
think so, though.” 

- “My mother loved him.” 

' “How do you know?” 

“I have supposed so. She married him.” 

- “Your mother has been sleeping under the grass 
these eighteen years as a result of that love.” And 
the old man turned to his work as if the matter 
were settled. 

“Are you going to tell me who my father is?” 
Emily inquired pointedly. 

“If you insist,” he answered, without looking up. 
Emily hesitated. She had been through the rou- 
tine before. She knew her grandfather had no in- 
tention of telling her. 

“Perhaps some one else is in possession of the 
information I desire.” 


THE MARTYR. 117 

Colonel Travik wrote on a few seconds. Then he 
stopped suddenly and turned to Emily. ^ 

“Percy knows and I suppose Lieutenant Winter 
does. You are of age. You may do as you please; 
but I warn you the knowledge that you seek will only 
bring you sorrow.” 

Emily stood another moment. Then she resolutely 
left the room and hurriedly dispatched a note to 
Lieutenant Winter. ^ 


After his lecture on the night Emily first saw him, 
Theodore Wayne left the church with a whirling 
brain and a throbbing heart. 

The notes of the song had startled him, for Emily, 
the daughter, sang with the voice of Emily, the 
mother. 

As she sang, the intervening years slipped away 
and it seemed to the lonely man that he stood face 
to face once more with the woman he had loved 
and wronged. 

* He sat in a spell until announced, then by a super- 
human effort he arose to the occasion and spoke 
as the spirit moved him. 

But at the close a tumult of confiicting emotions 
got the better of him. He felt his long taxed strength 


^ giving way and hastily retired, 
v All through the years he had longed for his child. 


118 THE MARTYR. 

After his first unsuccessful attempt to get her, he 
had decided to let the girl remain with her grand- 
father until she was older, thinking that then she 
would come to him of her own free choice. Know- 
ing Colonel Travik as he did he expected no kindness 
from him, but that the child should share his bitter 
and resentful feeling seemed hard to believe, yet, 
as the years slipped by one after another, and no 
word came, the belief was forced upon him. More 
than once he had written, such letters as a lonely, 
loving nature writes. Long and anxiously he had 
looked for answers, but not one had ever come. 

He did not know to what rigid censorship his 
daughter’s correspondence had been subjected. 

Now, after all these years, he had seen her and 
she did not recognize his existence by owning his 
name. 

It was a bitter revelation. 

Reaching his room, he dropped across the bed, 
weak and weary. 

The years of his ceaseless toil, his yearning and 
loneliness, the weight of false accusations, turned 
back like the leaves in a book and he seemed again 
in the years of his young manhood. 

He lived through his courtship and marriage and 
the first happy days — through his first debauch and 
the promises to the woman whose arms he could 
again feel around his neck— his second long disgrace 


THi; MARTYR. ‘ 119 

—the night on the bridge— the homecoming in the 
stillness of the night— the empty room— the letter 
in the mirror. 

All these he passed through with varying emo- 
tions. 

This letter he had kept, and many times it had 
been a consolation to him. Now he took it from his 
pocket, but it seemed like a mocking voice from the 
ashes of the past. 

He replaced the letter and let his mind travel 
through the rest of the tragedy— the crape on the 
door — the coflBn — the still, cold form of the woman 
who had entered her long rest. 

Theodore Wayne groaned and rising from the bed 
paced the floor. 

The words of his father-in-law sounded in his 
ear, having lost none of their harshness in the flight 
of years — the clods dropped on the coffin — the mound 
rounded up — the friends left— the fragrance of the 
flowers stifled him. 

After this came the lonesome life, the life of re- 
forms and strivings, of falls and disgraces, the one 
fearful time when he chained himself and when loos- 
ened drank the cup to its fearful dregs— when he 
fought an imaginary battle with a satanic foe and 
received a scar for life. 

It seemed that the manhood that he had been 
building all the years suddenly slipped away. Once 


120 THE MARTYR, 

more he was a weak and worthless wreck, and as 
his emotions mingled and rushed over him, out of 
the blackness of his misery there came again the 
desire for drink. 

What had the long years of his struggle and toil 
availed him? His wife had loved him and had gone. 
His daughter was ashamed to be called by his name. 
His church, and he loved it with his whole soul, stood 
aloof at best and heaped well-phrased odium upon 
his work. 

For an instant the thought came like a winsome 
fury to drown it all, past, present and the future, 
in the cup and let his life flicker out like a candle, 
but weak and exhausted though he was, this thought 
was only for an instant. 

No man who has felt the throbs of immortality 
that come as the pulsations of the new birth, can 
compare humanity to a candle light. 

Theodore Wayne shuddered as the thought came, 
tarried and passed. 

Then he knit his hands and dropping by the bed- 
side remained there until early morning. 

When he arose lie had not slept, his face was pale, 
but rest was stamped upon it and a victory had been 
gained such as no man knows save he to whom it is 
given. 

Theodore Wayne had fastened on his souTs buck- 
ler for the last round of his long, lonesome battle. 


THE MARTYR 


121 


CHAPTER IX. 

“I HAVE FOUND MY FATHER.” 

Lieutenant Winter was somewhat surprised on re- 
ceiving Emily’s note requesting him to call with- 
out delay. In the first place he supposed her out of 
town, and if she had not been, the request was 
somewhat unusual, hut on the whole he was more 
pleased than surprised. It seemed a bit like old 
times, days when Emily had felt free to call upon 
him in every case of trouble and it had been his 
chief delight to do her bidding. 

But he remembered that it was' the night of the 
lecture that he had for months been looking for- 
ward to and which even now he had no intention 
of missing. 

Accordingly, at an early hour he called at the 
elegant home of Colonel Travik where he found 
Emily dressed to go out and waiting impatiently. 

“I will not keep you long,” she said after bidding 
him good evening. “I am going to the lecture. I 
am going to hear Theodore Wayne. . Have you heard 
him?” 


122 THE MARTYR. 

The girl was speaking of her father. Lieutenant 
Winter was almost startled at the strangeness of it. 

“Have you heard him?” she repeated, noticing his 
hesitation. 

“No; but I have counted the days until this day, 
and I am on my way now.” 

Emily was silent a moment. She was thinking 
of the man. When she spoke it was an outburst of 
enthusiasm. “0, he is wonderful! There is no oth- 
er like him,” and her eyes were bright with ad- 
miration. 

“You have heard him then?” 

“Up at S — . I have seen him.” 

Lieutenant Winter was attention on the instant. 
“Tell me,” he said, “is his oratory bewitching, are 
his facts unsurmountable, is his logic invincible?” 

“Logic,” Emily repeated, “Logic? Why I don’t 
know anything about his logic. In fact I have not 
been able to recall a thing he said. Perhaps I never 
heard it. But his voice — did you ever sit in the 
attic when you were lonesome and hear the rain 
drops patter just over your head, and did you try 
to understand their music? That man’s voice stirred 
me like a raindrop song. His face with its scar 
looked familiar and I could not keep my eyes from 
it. Several times his eyes met mine, and that in- 
stant it seemed I had touched a battery. I hoped to 


THi: MARTYR. 123 

get acquainted with him and rushed to the front 
with the others, but he had gone, and I went home 
to dream of him. I have dreamed and thought and 
dreamed again and in my dreams I am always a 
child and he is near me and I see the scar." 

Lieutenant Winter had a vague notion why, if, as 
Emily had said, the speaker had looked closely at 
her, he had retired, but he did not understand why 
Emily should have been so strangely impressed 
with his face and his voice. 

“Did you ever see — ” he presently began. Then 
he stopped suddenly for he was thinking aloud. 

Emily waited a moment. 

“Did I ever see whom? The lecturer?" 

“Yes — the lecturer," Lieutenant Winter repeated. 

“Not that I know of. That is what puzzles me. 
His face with the scar — I see it now — but do I 
know him?" 

He did not answer her question. Emily did not 
expect him to. She was talking to herself, while he 
tried to decide whether to tell her of her father 
at once or to wait until after the lecture. 

Emily laughed presently. A strained nervous 
laugh. 

“Doesn’t it strike you as being odd that I of all 
people should be so interested in Theodore Wayne, 


124 THE MARTYR, 

and yet in a very strange way I am infatuated with 
him, and if any person gets acquainted with him 
tonight, I shall. I came home partly for that pur- 
pose. Then the mystery will clear away. He will 
tell me if I have known him. But you are going — 
I must tell you why I sent for you.” 

He had forgotten that she had summoned him and 
looked curious. 

Emily crossed the room and drawing a low chair 
to his side sat down close to him and facing him. 
It was an old way she had, so old that Lieutenant 
Winter supposed it had gone forever, and by the act 
he judged the importance of what she intended 
saying. 

Her face was serious, and for a moment she hesi- 
tated, then she said: “Tell me, do you know who 
my father is?” 

Winter was completely surprised by the sudden- 
ness of the question, but she waited for an answer. 

“What makes you ask?” at length he questioned. 

“What makes me ask?” she repeated impatiently. 
“What makes me ask who my father is? Please do 
not begin to cross question me. That is my grand- 
pa’s way, and I am tired of it. I am of age. Do you 
know who my father is?” 

“Yes.” 

A light leapt into Emily’s eyes, and she put her 


THE MARTYR. 125 

hand on the arm of the chair in which he was 
slowly rocking. 

He stopped, for her manner was imperious. 

“And you will tell me,” she said quietly, holding 
the chair firmly. 

“If you wish,” he replied, firmly. 

For a moment they sat. Then the young man 
looked away from her, for, now that the desired op- 
portunity had at last come, he actually could frame 
no words of information. 

The striking of the clock broke the stillness. 

“Listen! It’s time to go,” and he suddenly arose. 

Emily did not move. A lump came into her 
throat. It seemed that Lieutenant Winter had gone 
in league with her grandfather and both were de- 
termined to keep her in ignorance. 

“You said you would tell me!” she at last ex- 
claimed. 

“About your father?” 

Emily nodded. She was so- disappointed she dared 
not speak. 

“Certainly I will. But it is time to go now. Have 
you company — will Colonel Travik accompany you?” 

Emily shook her head. “He said he could em- 
ploy his time to better advantage.” 

“All right then. My buggy is at the door and the 
drive will be pleasant. Come, let us go.” 


126^ THE MARTYR 

“Will you tell me, then?” and there was a touch 
of pleading in her voice. 

“With the greatest of pleasure.” ’ 

As soon as they had started on their way, Emily 
turned her face to him. 

“Now,” she said, and he understood. 

“Very well, what first?” 

“You know who my father is?” 

“Yes.” 

“And he is living?” 

“Yes.” 

“You know where he is— right now— tonight?” 

“Pretty nearly.” 

Emily hesitated. She was standing on the thresh- 
old of the unknown door. 

“Tell me,” and she spoke, half whispering, “what 
is my father that I should know nothing of him? 
Is he a felon?” 

“Is my opinion worth anything to you?” Lieuten- 
ant Winter inquired, after gazing absently down the 
read a minute. 

“A very great deal.” 

“Then,. in my opinion, your father is one of the 
grandest men that God ever put upon this busy little 
planet. ' He is a man among a thousand thousand.” 

“What do you mean?” and he felt the pressure 
of her hand upon his arm. “Who is my father?” 


THE MARTYR. 


127 


“We shall see him presently.” 

“Will he be at the lecture?” 

“If there be a lecture.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“If Theodore Wayne lectures tonight, your father 
will be there and you cannot miss the sight of him, 
if you keep your eyes open.” 

There was a mystery in the words, and the 
emphasis he had put on the name was the only key 
to the puzzle. 

For a moment Emily hesitated. 

“You do not mean — you cannot mean?” 

Lieutenant Winter laughed. Her evident con- 
sternation amused him. 

“Yes,” he said, “I do mean.” 

“Say it plainly. I cannot understand unless you 
do.” 

“Well, to be plain, your humble servant has the 
honor on this occasion to be the escort of Emily, 
daughter of Theodore Wayne. Is that plain.” 

Emily fixed her eyes in open astonishment on her 
friend’s face, then, half laughing, half crying, the 
tears gaining the victory, she said, “I am so happy — 
I love him, and do you know — do you know, I be- 
lieve he loves me! A new life is before me! I have 
found my father!” 

As she spoke her eyes filled with tears which it 
was useless to try to hold back. She covered her 


128 THE MARTYR. 

face with her handkerchief and held it there some 

minutes. Then she suddenly dropped it in her lap. 

“Don’t you think,” she said deliberately, “that I 
have been treated badly? I have longed to know 
my father, and yet was afraid to know. I have 
needed him, and he has had a lonely life. My 
mother would not have wished it so. Why has it 
been?” 

“Ask your grandfather,” Winter suggested rather 
tartly. 

Questioned why her father had never made him- 
self known to her. Lieutenant Winter could give no 
satisfactory explanation, save to tell her that her 
father had once made an attempt to get her and 
had been ordered away. He did not tell her that 
her father was drunk at the time. 

It was still early when Lieutenant Winter with 
Emily entered the large auditorium, but even at 
this hour they found the best seats taken, and they 
had to be content with the middle section. In a 
short time, this also was filled, then the back, tne 
wings and the gallery, and 5till the people came. 

Emily had no eyes for anything but the platform, 
where several persons were sitting, but not the one 
she waited for. 

Presently a trumpet sounded; then from the 
throats of a trained chorus there suddenly burst 


THE MARTYR. ]29 

forth that glorious hymn, “My Country ’Tis of 
Thee.” 

As the inspiring words rolled out, thousands took 
up the refrain and while the music rose and swelled 
the speaker came quietly upon the platform. 

Emily and her escort leaned forward almost 
breathlessly. As when Emily saw him before, so he 
sat now, shading his eyes with his hand, resting or 
praying, while the voices of the singers shook the 
building. 

Immediately at the close of the singing, he stepped 
forward and began to speak. Lieutenant Winter 
half turned to make sure that Emily had not disap- 
peared. She sat very still with her eyes fastened 
on the figure upon the stage as if charmed. There 
was a new look in her face. Winter smiled and 
wondered but not for long. 

Like a needle near a magnet, his attention was 
drawn back to the speaker. 

Theodore Wayne did not hesitate this night. Fac- 
ing five thousand people, he stood with a triumphant 
bearing. Like a charioteer at the end of a long and 
well run race, his victory was already written on his 
face, and at the first tones of his voice it went ting- 
ling and vibrating out into the sea of souls and they 
also felt victory kindling in their breasts. 

As the elements of nature play with leaves and 


130 THB MARTYR. 

broken shells, so great spiritual forces bear and 

sway men’s souls. 

Thus this one pale-faced man controlled the emo- 
tions of his hearers directing them where he would. 

Emily leaned farther and farther forward, yet it 
was doubtful if she heard a sentence. She had for- 
gotten everything under the excitement, and Lieu- 
tenant Winter had forgotten her. 

Turning during a pause, he caught her arm and 
drew her back, calling attention to the fact that if 
she moved forward again she would in all probabil- 
ity land upon the floor and create a scene. 

As the lecturer advanced with his subject, others 
beside Emily forgot their surroundings and sat 
bound by a spell. 

When he sounded the depths of human misery 
and sorrow, the audience went into the blackness 
with him, and men wept; when he soared above the 
beautiful things of earth, he lifted thousands, and 
with him they caught glimpses of heavenly things, 
and when he unsheathed his sword of irony it cut 
sharper than a Damascus blade, and yet no threats 
were heard, though enemies packed the gallery. 

In the midst of the lecture, he paused, and turn- 
ing to the little table, poured a glass of water and 
lifted it to his lips. As he was in the act, a slim, 
dwarfish figure appeared, like a timber wolf, in the 


THE MARTYR. 131 

shadow of the wings, and instantly two pistol shots 
in quick succession rang out through the stillness. 

The glass dropped, and Theodore Wayne fell 
heavily upon the floor. 



132 THE MARTYR. 

second of silence followed — such a silence as 
when a frightened person gasps for breath. 

Then a woman’s voice pierced the stillness. “My 
father! My father!” the agoiiized voice cried, and 
the fashionable daughter of Colonel Travik ran wild- 
ly toward the stage. 

A scene of dire confusion followed. Hundreds 
rushed forward, and the cries of men, mingled with 
the sobs of women, were heard in different portions 
of the auditorium. 

With Lieutenant Winter close behind her, Emily 
made her way to her father’s side the dense crowd 
parting before her. 

* Several doctors were kneeling beside the body 
when she' reached the platform, and a pool of blood 
quivered on the carpet. 

The girl was nearly frantic. Winter put his arm 
around her and drew her away from the scene, bid- 
ding her stay where he left her until he found out 
the nature of the wound. Then, for a short time 
Emily sat in the chair which her father had used 
a few moments before his last immortal oration. 

When her friend returned to her, Emily learned 
that her father was not dead and that he was to be 
removed to a hospital immediately. 

“I am going,” she said rising. “I am going with 
my father!” 


THE MARTYR. 133 

“Certainly you are going— come,” and together 
they went out. 

They did not speak until they had started toward . 
the hospital. Then it was Emily. 

“Will my father die? What does it mean? Tell 
me!” and she held out her hand like a child groping 
in the dark. 

Lieutenant Winter took it in his. It was cold and 
tre'mbled. 

“You must be brave. Now is the time to act a 
woman’s part. If you are not brave, they will not 
let you stay — be quiet for your father’s sake.” 

Emily hid her face against his shoulder and 
sobbed. 

“Poor little girl,” he said tenderly. 

“Drive faster,” Emily whispered. 

He knew that they would reach the hospital be- 
fore the ambulance, but he touched the horse, and 
still holding her cold hand, they sped on through 
the lights and shadows of a city ruled by a traffic. 


134 


THE MARTYR. 



CHAPTER X. 

“IN LIFE AND IN DEATH AND IN ALL THE 
GREAT HEREAFTER.” 

The first shot had taken the desired effect. The 
bullet having passed through the left arm had en- 
tered the side and penetrated vital parts. When 
the unconscious man was raised to the stretcher a 
low gurgling rattle told of the deadly havoc the 
bullet had wrought. 

So it was that, for a second time, Theodore Wayne 
came to his senses in a hospital. 

His first vision, as he drifted back to conscious- 
ness, was that of a fair face close by. From this 
face he turned to the nurse appealingly, and with 
great effort spoke. His voice was weak and falter- 
ing and the nurse bent low to catch his words. 

“Am I dead or alive?” 

“You are alive.” 

“Alive,” he repeated as if mystified. “Alive, I 
thought I saw — ” 

The attendant waited but he did not finish the 
sentence. 

“Your daughter is here. <She has been with you 


all the time.” 


the: martyr. 135 

“All the time?” and he still spoke as if the sight 
had been a vision. Then he turned his head slowly 
and with apparent difficulty toward the girl. 

This was the moment for which Emily had long- 
ed. Earlier in the night, after Lieutenant Winter 
had told her of her father, she had pictured to her- 
self, over and over, the moment of their meeting. 
In her feverish anticipation she had even felt his 
arms around her and the pressure of his lips against 
hers; now the moment had come. One of his arms 
lay helpless done up in many bandages and the 
other was almost as useless with weakness. Even 
she could not throw her arms around his neck, for 
in his extremity it seemed that one rude touch 
might tip the balance that his life swung in. 

As his eyes met hers, she bent over the pillow 
and resting her cheek against his, whispered the 
one word that he longed to hear, “Father!” 

Theodore Wayne covered her face with his hand 
and for a time nothing was heard save the irregular 
labored breathing of the suffering man. 

When Emily raised herself they were alone. 

Her father looked at her with a long loving look. 

“You are like her — like your mother. Will they 
let you stay with me?” 

“Who?” and for the first time it occurred to the 
girl that someone might object to her staying with 
her father. 


136 


THE MARTYR. 

“I don’t know,” he said wearily, “whoever has^ 
kept you from me all these years.” - 

A feeling of resentment toward her grandfather 
rose in Emily’s mind, but she only pressed her lips ■ 
to her father’s forehead and whispered: “Until you ^ 
are well again.” 

“Until the end,” he corrected. 

“But you will not die, father.” 

“There is no death. There is this natural life, 
the shaded passage-way, and then, beyond, the rest 
— the light — eternal life. I feel the bands loosening. 

J am swinging out toward the open.” 

Emily gazed at her father in wonderment. It was 
as if he spoke of moving from one room or from 
one country to another, and in his tranquil face 
there appeared no trace of that terror that the 
thought of death had always inspired in the girl. 

Her eyes flooded with the tears that she had 
bravely tried to hold back, and resting her head 
against the bedside she sobbed. 

Her father .spread his hand over her hair caress- 
ingly. 

“If you will only live,” she moaned. 

“There is no death,” he again repeated. “ ‘This is 
the promise that he hath promised us, even eternal 
life.’ ” 

He dropped his hand from her head and in a mo- 
ment took her hand in his and pressed it. 


137 


THK MARTYR. 

“Until the end,” he said slowly. 

Towards morning he dropped into a broken sleep 
and Emily went into an adjoining room to rest a lit- 
tle while. Before daylight she awoke suddenly, 
having seen once more in her dream the sad faced 
man, and like a tempest the tragic events of the past 
night surged into her mind, and finding more rest 
out of the question she returned to her father. 

From time to time he talked of places and peo- 
ple of which she knew nothing, and once a shadow 
of fear hung over his face for an instant, but lifted 
as he murmured, “Able to deliver thee.” 

During the forenoon of the first day, he requested 
Emily to bring his little Bible and a letter from his 
pocket. 

This letter was the one he had found in the mir- 
ror the night of his return to the empty house, the 
last words the young wife had ever penned. 

After telling Emily something of the circum- 
stances, he asked her to read the letter aloud. 

She unfolded the worn paper with a trembling 
hand and read slowly, stopping from time to time 
to steady her voice as she neared the end: 

“Forever and forever — in life and death and all 
the great hereafter, I am. yours, only yours, 

“Good night. 


“EMILY.” 


138 THE MARTYR. 

It was very still in the little room. Presently, as 
if to himself Emily’s father repeated the words, 
“Good night, good night! The night has been these 
eighteen years but the morning is at hand.’’ 

Again Emily looked in wonderment at her father. 
She would not have granted that she was a heathen, 
yet she did not know that the sting of death is 
sin. 

He closed his eyes and rested, then reached out 
his hand for the letter. 

“Tomorrow it will be yours,” and a faint smile 
lit his face as he pressed the worn paper between 
his fingers. 

At intervals through the day, between frequent 
resting spells, Emily learned many things from her 
father. 

He told her of the day, so long ago, when he had 
kissed- her in the park. He spoke of the many let- 
ters written to which he had never received a reply, 
and was surprised to find that she had never seen 
them. 

“They were lost perhaps, but you are with me 
now to stay until the end — no, not the end, the fresh 
beginning.” 

Emily choked back the lump in her throat that 
made speech for the time impossible. When she 
did speak a trace of bitterness marked her voice. 


THE MARTYR. 138 

“But why has God set his mark of displeasure on 
you?” 

“You are looking at the scar. It is uncomely but 
the thing that caused it caused a deeper, darker one 
to mark my soul. Nature has healed the one and 
God’s grace the other. I bear in my body the marks 
of the conflict — not of my Father’s displeasure.” 

“But why — 0 why has this come to us?” and 
Emily spoke as she had when flrst told of Percy’s 
crime. She seemed possessed with an inborn notion 
that she was a pet among God’s creatures. 

“God knows no ‘us.’ My child, we are but atoms 
of the great mass of misery and woe that darkens 
a Christian country. Why is it so? Because this 
Christian nation trafiics in damnation.” 

Emily hardly understood, and her father told her 
the story of his life, with its hope and despair, its 
loving and longing and its great salvation. Long 
before he had finished Emily knew that she was 
the daughter of one who had once been a hopeless 
drunkard, and she thought that she understood why 
on one occasion Lieutenant Winter had spoken so 
strangely concerning hereditary traits. 

In the course of his broken conversation, he spoke 
of temptation, made fashionable, and put in the way 
of young people by ignorant men and women. Per- 
haps he was thinking of his mother, but Emily fitted 


140 the martyr. 

the words to her elegant, cut-glass punch bowl, and 
the distressing thought came to her for the first 
time that perhaps she was in a measure responsible 
for Percy’s downfall. 

Only once did he seem sad while running over 
past events, and that was in speaking of his posi- 
tion in the church. 

“They fast and pray and, so do I, but in the still- 
ness of the closet I hear a voice forever saying: 
‘The fast that I have chosen is to loose the bands 
of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens and to 
let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every 
yoke.’ It is hard to be misunderstood, but we shall 
know each other better by and by. God bless the 
church.” 

Throughout the day and the greater part of the 
night, Emily sat by her father, for her presence 
seemed to satisfy him. 

The second day passed much as the first, but to- 
ward its end Emily noticed that the nurse seemed 
more watchful, and when the doctor came she fol- 
lowed him into the hall, where she learned that 
her father was failing. 

Now Emily, like many another person, believed 
brandy to be a first-class tonic, and on learning of 
her father’s failing strength requested permission to 
give him some. 


THE MARTYR. 141 

At first this request was ignored by the physician, 
but when she insisted he turned to her an aston- 
ished face and spoke rather sternly: 

“My dear young woman, do you want to see your 
father die a raving maniac?” 

Emily was somewhat taken back and did not un- 
derstand in the least why he spoke as he did. 

“Your father is a reformed man. Give him 
brandy? Never!” 

Emily felt the hot blood rush to her face and to 
add to her embarrassment she saw that Lieutenant 
Winter had just ascended the stairs and she was 
sure by the expression on his face that he had 
overheard the conversation. 

Early in the evening her father fell into a fitful 
sleep, but first he made Emily kneel by his side, and 
with his hand upon her head gave her into the care 
and keeping of the loving Father. 

From time to time he moaned slightly and occa- 
sionally he spoke, sometimes incoherently and 
again quite plainly. 

“Yours for all eternity,” he whispered once and 
a smile flickered across his pale face. Often it was 
a fragment of a scripture text or a bit of gospel 
song and running through it all, like the links of a 
chain, were the words, “Forever — and forever.” 

Until midnight, Emily sat scarcely daring to 


142 THE MARTYR 

move; then, as there seemed to be no change, she 

went out to rest for a short time. 

She had dropped asleep, but it seemed to her that 
she had been there but a moment when she was 
awakened by the nurse. 

She asked no question, but returning to her father, 
found that he was still sleeping the sleep of a suf- 
ferer and she noticed that from time to time he 
moved his bandaged arm without seeming to no- 
tice any pain. She also noticed that a trouble- 
some cough had come upon him which, with per- 
sistent regularity, jarred his body and started the 
hollow gurgling. 

Taking her low seat, she took his hand in hers 
and found it hot. 

“Is my father worse?” Emily whispered, going to 
the side of the nurse. 

“Unfavorable symptoms have developed. 

As morning neared, he grew still more restless, 
pressing his chest convulsively with his hands, and 
when the morning light finally streamed into the 
room, the two watchers saw that an ashy tinge 
had stolen into his face and that unnatural lines 
marked the corners of his mouth. 

When the physician came he called Emily to one 
side. 


THE MARTYR. 143 

“Your father is failing rapidly. If there is any 
one you wish to send for, send without delay.” 

Emily first thought of her grandfather, but for 
some undefined reason he was of all people the one 
she least desired to have with her. Then her heart 
longed for Percy, but not even death could open his 
bars. Lieutenant Winter she knew would come and 
it was for him that she sent. 

Now that she knew the worst, the girl nerved 
herself for a trial of which she knew nothing and, 
borne up by excitement, took her place quietly by 
the white bed. 

Still the sufferer talked in broken snatches, and 
quite often violent paroxyisms of pain passed over 
him which even in his weakness he seemed trying 
to control. 

“Do you know me?” Emily questioned softly, 
bending low. 

He opened his eyes and after gazing blankly a 
minute found her face. 

He made a motion with his lips as if to kiss her 
and she bent her face to his. 

Then his eyes closed, and he went back to his 
moaning. 

They thought it was the last, but a little later 
he said a single word and that was “Sing ” 

‘What, father?” 


144 THE MARTYR. 

The few around the bedside listened intently, for 
they thought he had drifted beyond the pale of un- 
derstanding or of speech. 

He made several weak attempts, the words dying 
half formed and the low gurgle coming nearer; 
then he faltered, “Abide With Me.” 

Emily began the hymn, but her voice suddenly re- 
fused her, as if paralyzed, and she covered her face 
with her hands. 

Then someone took up the words and she knew 
that Lieutenant Winter had come. 

Abide with me, fast falls the even tide, 

The darkness deepens—Lord with me abide'; 
When other helpers fail and comforts flee, 

Help of the helpless, O, abide with me. 

Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day. 

Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away. 
Change and decay on all around I see; 

O Thou who changest not, abide with me. 

During the singing, those around the bedside 
watched the gentle ebbing of man’s frail mortality. 

The pain waves that had been rolling like surges 
died into ripples and quieted. 

The distressing gurgling hushed, and the voice 
of the song softened to a reverent whispering. 

Just as the last breath was fluttering over his 
lips, the dying man suddenly reached forth his hand 
and partly raising his head, called: “Emily.” 


the; martyr. 145 

The girl at his side rose instantly and took his 
damp, outstretched hand. He held it for an instant, 
but he did not see her face. ' ' " 

Following the direction in which he seemed to 
look, Emily discerned nothing but the iron bed- 
stead and, beyond, the wall. • > 

As his head dropped back all trace 'of pain left 
him. • " 

Righteousness and peace had met, mercy and truth 
had kissed each other, and the print was on the still 
face. 

Theodore Wayne was, as men speak, dead. 

Emily stood dazed for a moment, then she threw 
her arms around his neck and cried again and 
again, “My father, you are not dead! My father, 
you are not dead!” 

The nurse tried to get her away, then the doctor, 
but it was Lieutenant Winter who finally quieted 
her. 

Later, when her grandfather came, he found her 
dry eyed and more spirited than he had expected she 
would be. 

Her one request was that her father should be 
buried beside her mother, under the shadow of the 
angel’s wings. 

Colonel Travik had expected this and was not 
prepared to deny the petition, yet he secretly wished 


146 THE MARTYR, 

that it could have been different; for he hated this 
kind of notoriety, and-the case had already created 
widespread excitement. 

Until the funeral the body lay in state in the 
church that had refused him entrance three days 
before. '"TI r.T.- joy «.:t 

He was^»a Ymartyr now, and the church makes 
much of martyrs. ^ ^ * 

: _va; etin 

. ' Ml Ut^iiw ,loq r><; 

• • udH Ysdr n^?di ;7'>vo ai 
, ■ ' ^nhijonf ti as - 




M jcq Iii:>Ox*ocf bs>i 1 




':j4^4 ' 


-r 2 I j: 


I • ’ '=,1 }u>‘: 

i/Ui, 

j rS'Sij .^as'MdiJd qs'V 3:;; 

bfirf ti. ■ ' •. < 

•- • '“Jqob ' 

. ■ . .•ii'TJSq -.hs ; -,a t' 

QS - ’S , j':*-' - . v-f' 


THE MARTYR. 


147 


CHAPTER XI. 

“MURDER YOU CALL, IT?” 

Over the top of a simmering pot there float well- 
formed bubbles, but as the under heat grows more 
intense, suddenly there springs from the depths of 
the mixture one rude and savage bubble that 
bursts all bounds. 

At its appearance the well-formed bubbles scatter 
to the sides of the pot, where they huddle and cling 
until the agony is over; then they slip back to their 
accustomed places as if nothing had happened. 

The social and political pot likewise has its bub- 
bles. They give to the aggregation a moral and 
Christian flavor, and it is not until some violent 
upheaval of corruption that they hold up their 
hands in holy horror and ejaculate. 

These bubbles too, like soup bubbles, after it is 
all over silently assume their respective positions. 

After the campaign heat had become intense 
enough to boil from the hidden depths a Pinlegs 
and his crime, there was in the particular city in 
which the affair took place a grand scurry of moral 
and Christian bubbles; and no one person was more 


148 .THB MARl^YR. 

to the front in the scurry than was Colonel Travik. 

He suddenly forgot the long years of strained re- 
lations between him and his daughter’s husband, 
due entirely to hijnself, and spoke warmly of him. 
He condemned the criminal, denounced ring poli- 
tics, but he stayed "in- the pot. - ' 

It' was' the second day after the ' tragddy " that 
Colonel' TraYik was* summoned ‘ to the jail. I" ’ 

The fall term of court was near, at hand, and he 
had his hands ' full of legal business; besides his 
mind was ill at rest concerning Pe'rcy. ' 
v This casei’ -lOiig deferred; was to have a hearing. 
The postponement had resulted- as- hoped for. The 
public had lost interest in it, but public opinion is 
like a piece of India rubber, and the tragedy enactr 
ed by, the dwarf had suddenly stretched it tense 
again. This sudden straining meant; no gpod for 
Percy’s cause. ^ ^ - 

. WjDndering who it might -be that had summoned 
him, Colonel Travik went to the ^ j was 

somewhat surprised to -find who had sent for him. 

As he entered^ the cell > designated, a shaggy red 
head ,turned^ stifSy on a. wiry neck and every hair 
on this head stood out in keen appreciation of his 
visit. The man attached to this head was chewing 
vigorously and only stopped long enough to bid 
the eminent counsel a friendly “good morning.’’ 


the: martyr. 149 

. Colonel Travik, much as he was surprised, stood 
before a devoted 'member of his political club. True 
he had never engaged in conversation with him be- 
fore, buttthis Jiad not been, necessary. Intuitively 
perhaps, he had recognized his importance. ' 
J'Wfeirsir/’ he said in a voice calculated- to im- 
press the uncouth creature with the chasm that, lay 
between them. ’ .a, 

The dwarf did not seem to .be impressed that 
there was a chasm.. He chewed rapidly st. few sfec- 

onds, spit and said: ; : 

“Well,* long’s we’ve bin a fightin’ in the same bojf 
and I’m in a hole, I thought I’d git yow to git me 
out.” ... ^ 

“Do you mean, sir, that you want mexte. under- 
take your defense?” and the Colonel’s surprise was 
evident. ' ^ 

Pinlegs spit on the floor and nodded his bristling 
head. ^ 

Colonel Travik stood aghast: “You are a'-mur^ 
derer! Your hands are red with the blood of d 
fellow creature!”, he said impressively. 

Pinlegs raised his two hands and contemplated 
them seriously.'' They were a combination of dif- 
ferent shades, the black tipped fingers spreading 
into prominence like filthy ’ claws,"- but ^ no blood 
stains were visible.- : —■ 


150 THE MARTYR. 

“Murder?" the dwarf said through a mouth full 
to overflowing of tobacco juice, “Murder you call 
it?" 

“The man can not survive. It is premeditated, 
cold-blooded murder," replied the lawyer. 

The red dwarf still held his spread hands before 
him. After the colonel had delivered himself of 
his expostulation, the murdered began counting off 
his Angers naming them as he proceeded. 

“This is Mister Jimmit; this is Mister Snoyer; 
this is Mister Bunn” — and he halted at his middle 
finger for an explanation. 

“They had the jams and I knew they'd hav’em. 
They shuffled off, and I knew they would. I let 
'em go — fact is, I giv'em a farewell push. They 
was no more good to me — none. That's three — 
murders do you call 'em?" 

Then he went on coolly counting murders and 
deaths that had taken place the direct outcome of 
his occupation. One child beaten to death; one 
woman stabbed; one baby died of neglect; one old 
man of starvation, each time turning down a finger, 
until but one remained. 

This he viewed something as a cat does a mouse. 
After again emptying his mouth he continued. 

“This is the gal with the sharp tongue. I helped 
her out fer her sass. Didn't mean to do no more 


THE MARTYR. 161 

than shut off her wind fer the time bein’, but she 
didn’t come to. No matter — ^^let it go. The prints 
wasn’t deep. They said she died— and she died — 
she died” — and he slowly turned down his last 
finger. 

For a moment the human machine of which these 
fingers made a part contemplated them calmly, 
then he dropped them carelessly at his side and 
bore down on his cud with renewed energy. 

Colonel Travik had discovered something new in 
the line of humanity and the gravity of his find 
overcame him to the extent of holding him speech- 
less for a time. 

Pinlegs noticed this and looked pleased. 

“And you call it murder, do you?” he questioned, 
breaking the spell. 

“Black, cold-blooded murder,” was the reply. 

“That’s what you call it with your mouth, but 
when you name it at the ballot box tain’t that. 
My paper reads ‘of good moral character.’ That’s 
me. I’ve got the paper.” 

“I disclaim any part in the transaction.” 

“To be sure you disclaim. That’s proper. A man 
in your position should always disclaim. Our trade 
will suffer if you don’t disclaim; but we’re a sys- 
tem just the same. Your end is shiny like to gold, 
and it’s hitched under the parson’s desk. My end 


152 THE MARTYR, 

needs scraping and smells sort of rank and it’s fast 
to a beer barrel. Betwixt your end and mine the 
thing twists and winds a heap, but it sticks to- 
gether and when one end is bothered the other end 
suffers. We’re a system.” 

Colonel Travik looked upon the dwarf with a gaze 
of mingled wonder, disgust and wrath. 

“You mean to ask me to defend YOU?” 

“Why not?” and Pinlegs fixed his octopus eyes 
upon the bland face of the finished attorney. 

-“I have yet my first murderer to defend.” 

“Call it murder, do you? I only put the finishing 
touches on what some better looking man begins. 
Don’t be two fellars now. Tain’t business. Be 
your prayin’ self on Sunday and cuss us out; that’s 
all that saves our necks; it’s necessary that you 
should; but I want dealin’s now with the state 
chairman of the central committee. I’m the giz- 
zard,” and the dwarf chuckled. 

“I’m a gizzard. Do I look like one? Well, I'm 
a. gizzard. I stay down in the insides of the critter 
and do the grindin’. You’re the head and neck 
and top-knot and crowin’ apparatus. You gather 
,up the corn and pray; and we and some others 
make a political fowl and the same feathers covers 
us all. I’m the gizzard. You can’t run the critter 
without me, but this gizzard is shelved for repairs. 
Help me out.” 


153 


THE MARTYR. 

. “I will not. You are a MURDERER!" 

“And hev bin fer some time— if you call it mur- 
der.” 

'“Thank heaven, there is a judgment day!” 

The red-headed dwarf ground his tobacco rapidly, 
filling his mouth with juice. Casting his eye up- 
ward he saw a spider making its way down a thread 
close by. A look of amusement lit his face as it 
neared the floor, and when it touched he spat upon 
it with full force. 

“The judgment!” he repeated, after having emp- 
tied his mouth. “The judgment!” and he watched 
the spider wriggle in the noxious pool. 

Colonel Travik, drawn by the man’s close gaze, 
looked also, and together they watched the spider 
as if its fate had a meaning. 

For a moment it struggled valiantly, then it top- 
pled over and Anally, twisting its legs into a knot, 
expired. 

“The judgment!” the dwarf repeated for a third 
time. Then he laughed, as if much amused, and 
emptying a full mouth over the dead insect said, 
with a grin, “Here’s to your judgment!” 

Then he faced Colonel Travik and said good na- 
turedly: “Say, feller comrade, in this fight we’ve 
bin a makin’, if you don’t help me out, I may not 
see you agin until the judgment. Tell me, which 


154 THE MARTYR, 

man are you goin’ to be on that great and fearful 
day? I’ll know you if your settin’ as state chair- 
man, but if you’re a posin’ as the deacon maybe 
I’ll git mixed.” 

Colonel Travik scorned to answer this remark, 
and gathering himself stiffly, turned toward the 
door. 

Pinlegs watched him with the same look that he 
had bestowed upon the spider as it struggled in its 
death. 

‘‘You pintly refuse then?” 

‘‘I refuse.” 

‘‘So much gained fer some other fellar. You see, 
state chairman, I belong soul and body to a con- 
cern that wiggles all over when one part gits hurt, 
even down to the gizzard. Hit its tail in Arkansaw 
and it’ll spit in New York. Pinch its fore parts on 
the Atlantic and it’ll kick in California; and its 
stuffed with long green and gold. Will I be hanged? 
No. Will I serve out my days working in the chain 
gang fer my bread and tobacco? No. Will I git 
a sentence? Yes; justice must be done, you know,” 
and again he chuckled. ‘‘Will my time be cut off 
short? Yes. Why? Because the next man that 
wants to be governor will not be a fool. I belong 
to an organization. The President, peace be to 
him, sees fit to stand by it; the church, peace be 


THE MARTYR. 155 

to it, stands by the President; the people, peace 
be to them, stand by the church. United we stand, 
divided we bust all to bits. Now, what gits me is 
that you can’t stand by a feller comrade in a fight, 
but I’ve never bin two men at once. That makes the 
difference.” 

Colonel Travik, who had grown exasperated to 
the last degree at the uncouth familiarity of the 
murderer, abruptly left the cell, almost before the 
last words were spoken, but as he went down the 
corridor he heard the phrase repeating in his ear, 
“that makes the difference.” 

After the funeral of her father, Emily returned 
to her home, but all seemed changed. The gay life 
in which she had lived a few months before seem- 
ed like a dream and the happy discovery and tragic 
parting with her father were like a dream within 
a dream. 

Something had come between her and her grand- 
father also, and she felt that no lapse of years 
could entirely remedy the wrong he had done her. 

The near approach of Percy’s trial hung like a 
heavy cloud over her life, and many times she 
thought of what her father had said regarding fash- 
ionable temptations and their fearful consequences. 
She felt that if Percy were meted out a stern pun- 
ishment, she would be to blame because of the 


156 THE MARTYR, 

punch bowl. She it was who had first drank with 
Percy that day, and many times she had insisted 
that there could be no harm in the temperate use 
of wine. 

. Regarding Lieutenant Winter, Emily hardly dar- 
ed think at all. That he was her friend she knew. 
That he loved her she believed, but in the revela- 
tion that had recently been made to her she had 
discovered that she had been born the child of a 
drunkard, and the words that Lieutenant Winter 
had spoken concerning the children of drunkards 
rose in her mind as a check when she would have 
dreamed of things that might come, bringing hap- 
piness into her life. 

The day set for a hearing of Percy’s case fol- 
lowed closely the day of Theodore Wayne’s funeral. 
At first it seemed to Emily that it would not be 
possible for her to go, but her conscience hurt 
her and when she thought a second time of poor 
Percy,., whom she dearly loved, alone, she deter- 
mined 'for his sake to face ^ the trying ordeal 
bravely. 

The young soldier had not regained his usual 
robust health after his fever, and as the summer 
days stretched out, lonesome and monotonous, his 
self-assurance left him and he realized what it 
meant to be caught in the toils of the law, even 
defective and illy administered. 




THE MARTYR. ■ 15 T 

With the eager impatience of a child he awaited 
his trial, turning over in his mind the thought that 
he had not intended to kill his victim, and believ- 
ing that the jury would find a verdict accordingly. 
With her grandfather Emily sat in the crbw-ded 
I court house and waited the entrance of the pris- 
I' oner. 

I When at last he entered, she was struck with' 
^ pity at sight of hind. 

He was so unlike the old Percy, his face was 
thin and pale, and his step had lost a degree of 
firmness, while the bold glance of his blue eye had 
given place to a look half pleading and half re- 
sentment. 

Emily listened to the sickening details of the 
murder, but half realizing that it was their Percy 
■ whose name was thus being dragged through the 
slime. Questions and cross-questions, untangling’ 
bits of legal knots, and the adjusting of legal opin- 
ions jangled in her mind as the case proceeded. 
Some of this she understood, and again she was 
lost in the rapid cross firing of the prosecution, but 
she gathered from her grandfather’s face that all 
was not going well. 

When it had ended and the jury had gone out, 
the girl sat with her face turned toward the door, 
listening to the pounding of her own heart and 
scarcely daring to breathe. 


158 the martyr. 

She had not long to wait. The twelve men filed 
slowly back and the foreman handed the judge a 
slip of paper. 

Emily heard the words that he read, but they 
spun in her head and all she knew was that Percy, 
sunny-faced, light-hearted Percy would be sentenc- 
ed to the state penitentiary for many years. 

A deathlike hush followed this reading, which 
was suddenly broken by a man’s sob, and Percy 
dropped his white face into his white hands and 
wept like a baby. 

Emily grew cold and clutched her chair for sup- 
port, but she did not cry nor faint. For a moment 
she stared rigidly at the bowed head of Percy and 
then at the judge. Then she covered her face with 
her handkerchief to hide the sight, but while many 
another wept she did not. Her tears had all been 
shed or were frozen, and she sat trembling, strange- 
ly numb and cold, for it seemed that sentence 
had been pronounced upon her. Verily the poor 
girl had learned by the price of a man’s honor and 
liberty that destinies have turned on punch bowls. 
The one thought that pressed her painfully was 
that if, on that fateful night, she had not served 
strong drinks his crime might not have happened. 
She felt condemned and wondered if Percy would 
rise up in the judgment against her. 


THE MARTYR. 159 

Now, a second time, Colonel Travik sav; kis son 
pass before him, moving at a Christian country’s 
grave demand. 

This time there was no fresh blue uniform. The 
uniform is for the man yet to be tempted by a 
government’s infamy— the felon’s garb for the man 
who has been tempted and has fallen. 

This time there was no flying Stars and Stripes; 
this noble emblem is only for those who shout in 
health or fall before a bullet, not for those who fall 
into the trap laid by a nation for its brave de- 
fenders. 

This time there was no tramp of many feet, no 
band of ringing music. To the empty echo of his 
own hollow footfalls which broke the stillness, 
Percy Travik, only son of Colonel Travik, church 
pillar and state chairman, left the scene of his 
trial, and thus, in this age,, is justice ground out. 

As she left the court house, Emily caught a 
glimpse of Lieutenant Winter, but she did not 
speak to him. 

She felt herself to be a criminal; she did not want 
his pity nor his sympathy. She knew that he had 
been disappointed in her and displeased. At this 
she did not wonder, for she despised herself, and her 
load of bitterness was almost greater than she 
could bear. 


160 


THE MARTYR. 


- itfiSrhiM w5IV£ii^ • ■• ^,.- 

i CHAPTER XII. ^ " 

-y - , ? " ' 

“NO MAN GAN SERVE TWO MASTERS.” 

Lieutenant Winter was heartsick over Percy’s 
sentence, not that it was unexpected, nor that he 
would have had justice, such as it was, withheld; 
but he had been the boy’s companion so many 
years, had tried so hard to keep him from his 
course and had seen him walk so carelessly into 
the pit protected by a Christian nation, that now 
it seemed hard indeed to see him go to spend the 
prime of his life behind prison bars. 

But it was even more of Emily than of Percy that 
he thought. 

The girl had bravely stood the shock of her 
father’s death, and Winter had been proud of her. 
She had dared to sit, a conspicuous figure, in a 
crowded court room for Percy’s sake, and this 
knowledge gave the young soldier much satisfaction, 
for while the process seemed indeed a hard one, 
these trying ordeals were bringing to the front 
those characteristics of the woman’s nature that to 
him seemed an essential part of a symmetrical 
character. 


THE MARTYR. 161 

But the sight of her white unnatural face as she 
left the scene of the trial worried him. He knew 
that to the sorrow of her first great grief the pangs 
of conscience had been added and he also knew 
that, in the midst of friends, she must carry the 
load alone. 

He felt sure, however, that he could comfort her 
more than any other, and the day after the trial he 
called at the home of Colonel Travik with this 
happy mission to perform. 

With an impatience he had not known before, he 
waited in the parlor for Emily and he was more 
than surprised when the servant brought back the 
announcement that Miss Emily was not well and 
could not see company. 

A second day he tried with the same results. 

The third time he called he carried a boquet of 
her favorite fiowers, but he had no better results 
than on his previous visits and when, on the fourth 
occasion, he found the fiowers in the hall that he 
had expected she would keep near her because he 
had sent them, he was quite perplexed. 

“Is Miss Emily sick?” he inquired after the usual 
excuse had been tendered. 

“Nothing serious. She is not feeling well.” 

“How sick is she?” and thoughts of brain fever 
and nervous prostration arose before his mind to 
alarm him. 


162 THE MARTYR. 

“She is not really sick, but does not wish to^see 
company.” • 

<“But I am not company,” he sard emphatically, 
and writing something on a card he again dis- 
patched the servant. 

But it was of no use. Emily was determined that 
of all people, she would not see" Lieutenant Winter, 
because he was of all people the one she most 
wished to see. The= words that he, had said at dif- 
ferent times regarding drunkards, their children 
and their children’s children, came to her mind 
continually, and she felt that while he was sorry 
for her, while he would always be her friend, he 
too had been separated froni' her by the cruel fate 
that had robbed her of so much. 

So the days went until several weeks had passed 
without Lieutenant Winter once having seen her 
since the day of the trial. 

Then one day, in passing a corner where pas- 
sengers changed cars for a suburban route leading 
to the cemetery, he caught sight of a slender black 
robed figure carrying flowers. 

There was but one person in the world that looked 
exactly as this one did, and although he did not see 
her face he knew her. 

Reigning his horse a bit he watched from a dis- 
tance “ until he saw lier board the car, then after 


THE MARTYR. 163 

fiome random driving he turned into the cemetery 
road. 

It was -an autumn afternoon. Frosts had turned 
the leaves golden and red, and they fluttered softly 
and gathered in the corners of grave fences and 
between the mounds. 

A haze hung over the world, as if summer were 
adjusting her veil for a stormy season. 

As be entered the lonesome spot, the notes of a 
late bird suddenly broke the stillness for a mo- 
ment and then hushed as suddenly as it had 
started. 

He soon came to the lot where the marble angel 
stood gnard, and here, in a disconsolate heap against 
the new bare mound, the woman he sought was rest- 
ing with her face hidden close to some faded flow- 
ers. 

A little black wrap lay on the step entering the 
lot and the fresh flowers were yet at her side. 

Without attracting attention Lieutenant Winter 
drove on. 

A second and a third time he passed the same 
way and still she remained, so far as any signs 
showed, as lifeless as the marble above her. 

A fourth time he came to the place. This time 
he stopped. 

The short afternoon was nearing its end; the grey 


164 the martyr. 

sky was lowering, and a chilly wind had sprung lip. 


He hitched his horse and picking up the wrap 
went to the still black figure lying over the grave 
and spoke her name. 



THE STILL BLACK FIGURE LYING OVER THE 


GRAVE. 


THE MARTYR. 165 

She did not answer him, and he shook her gently 
by the shoulder. 

“Emily,” he said, “you must get up.” 

The girl did not turn her face, but raising her 
hand, made a gesture of dismissal. 

“Go away; please go away. I will go home pres- 
ently.” 

“I will not go away.” 

, Still she did not move. 

“Will you come? If you do not I shall take you 
in my arms and carry you,” and he bent and 
wrapped the cape around her shoulders, holding 
one hand on each of them waHing her decision. 

Emily knew Lieutenant Winter. She slowly 
arose. 

“Haven’t we had enough of trouble? You will 
catch your death of cold.” 

Emily turned slowly toward him. Her face was 
without a trace of a tear, and when she spoke 
there was no tremor in her voice. 

“Will you tell me one reason why I should not 
wish to catch ray death of cold — and die? Tell me 
just, one! My father needed me, and God knows 
how I would have loved him, but he does not need 
me in the grave. Percy needed me, he needed my 
counsel and my company and I gave them to him 
to his .own hopeless ruin. I have been false to my- 
self. Why should I not take cold and die?” 


166 THE MARTYR. 

He looked at the girl closely for a moment. In 
the years of his acquaintance with her he had never 
seen her in such a mood. 

There was a rustic seat close by. “Let us talk 
a minute,” he said, leading the way to it. “If you™ 
knew that there was one person in the world who^ 
really needed you — who would indeed find the 
thought of living without you simply unbearable, 
would that be a reason, one reason, why you should 
not wish to take your death of cold?” 

“It would have been once,” she said, as bravely 
as she could, for the tone of his voice more than 
his words brought suddenly back the helplese long- 
ing for him and his love that she had been valiant- 
ly living down the past weeks. 

“And why not now?” he questioned closely, and 
Emily knew there was no way to answer this per- 
sistent man but to deal frankly with him. 

“You have not forgotten what you said about 
drunkards, their children and their children's chil- 
dren. I am sure you have not. You remember 
yet, even now, that hereditary inheritances are tha 
most powerful of all forces for good and for evil in 
the world.” 

At first the occasion for these remarks did not 
occur to Winter, but shortly He remembered what 
he had said and then he understood why sha bad 
acted so strangely. 


THE ^MARTYR. i67 

. "‘I remember-^you arb right. Inherited desires 
are;'very powerful. You are the daughter of a 
martyr. Gould there; be a grander inheritance?” 

Emily Set. her lips tightly for a moment. Then 
she looked into his face and said: “No one knows 
better than you that by birth I am the daughter of 
a drunkard.” 

The vision of a man cnained to a tree ’came be- 
fore the soldier and the wild screams, “Whisky — 
hell” seemed again to burst from the lips of the man 
sleeping under the sod close by. But this picture 
vanished as suddenly as it had come and another 
took its place. ” ' 

' In this, a pale man with a searching eye and a 
scarred face stood before a multitude, by word 
and tone and gesture lifting ituto glorious heights 
sublime, or dipping it in such • depths of sorrow 
that tears fell over cheeks long since grown cal- 
lous. Again, from the lips of the man sleeping be- 
neath the sod there seemed to come a voice; a 
calm voice throbbing with a supreme victory and 
breathing back a benediction even from, the verge 
of the hidden passage-way. 

“There is one thing stronger— one thing,” he said 
softly. “Do you know? It is the grace of God.” 

^‘The >grace of God,” Emily' repeated, her voice 
softening. “Yes, it is the grace of God; but tell me 


168 THE MARTYR, 

why all these things are? My father knew the 
grace of God and he lies yonder. Percy is not dead, 
but is shut away from the world by iron bars in- 
stead of clods of earth. Why is all this?” 

“Why is it? It is because a Christian nation 
nourishes a serpent in its bosom and licenses its 
sting. You are but one of untold millions who 
have known the pain of its virus.” 

According to the request of Theodore Wayne, 
a scripture passage had been cut in the marble be- 
neath his name. Emily’s eye sought this as she 
sat in the gathering gray. 

“There shall be no more sorrow . . . neith- 

er any pain, for the former things are passed away.” 

“No more sorrow — neither any pain, for the 
former things are passed away,” and Emily, as she 
repeated the words, looked out across the solitary 
spot where mortal dust returns to dust. 

“These are the ‘former’ times,” and she lifted 
her finger toward the sullen sky. “It is without a 
rift. These are the ‘former’ times.” 

“The ‘former things are passed away,’ ” Lieu- 
tenant Winter repeated, reverently, as if speaking 
to himself. Then he turned quickly to Emily, but 
she arose and going to the graveside began ar- 
ranging the fiowers preparatory to leaving. 


THE MARTYR. 169 

Lieutenant Winter followed, and kneeling by her 
side, banded them to her. ^ • 

As she placed them he noticed that her hand 
trembled. For just a moment after the last one had 
been set she controlled herself, then reaching out 
her arms for something forever beyond her reach, 
she dropped them over the grave and cried the old 
cry, “My father, O my father! 

It was not the sharp cry of pain and terror that 
had rung out over the throng; now it was a heart- 
broken moan, voicing the deep distress of another 
life caught in the torturing grasp of a licensed 
traffic. 

Lieutenant Winter's eyes filled with tears, and 
through the mist he looked on the sobbing girl. 

Then suddenly he threw his arms around her and 
lifting her up gathered her to his breast. 

A fresh breeze stirrea the flowers and fanned the 
ribbons at her neck. 

“The daughter of a martyr,” he whispered ten- 
derly. 

Just as they left the grave a slanting ray of light 
broke through the dull gray overhead and lit the 
letters beneath the angel’s feet with pale gold. 

“See!” he said. “That is for us: ‘No more sor- 
row— for the former things are passed away.’ We 
shall come to the rift together.” 


170 THE MARTYR. 

For a moment the words glowed in the lights 
then the brightness slipped away and again the 
gloom wrapped the sacred spot,, but Winter, look- 
ing into Emily's eyes, knew the rift had already 
come, for in them he saw the light. 

There are always those who read a story who 
must count the ruffles on the bride’s, gown, who 
must in fact hear the ceremony pronounced or else 
they fear that somewhere, between the ending of 
the story and the ceremony, something untoward 
will transpire. 

There are those who are not satisfied with the 
opinion of a reputable physician as he pronounces 
death inevitable in the final chapter. They prefer 
to see the corpse in the coffln and attend the fu- 
neral, lest a miracle take place and he survive. 

- There are some who find no pleasure in leaving 
a villain alive, lest he repent and become a saint. 
They choose to have him hung for the sake of cer- 
tainty. 

So in conclusion, for the benefit of these readers, 
we will say that Jdeutenant Winter and Emily 
Wayne were really married and will, if the divinely 
appointed way for human happiness is not marred 
by human blunders, be happy. 

Coots, the child purchased by Pinlegs, dive- 


THE MARTYR. 171 

keeper and dlsburser of funds, died in the hospital 
—the surest and speediest escape from' the clutches 
of a Cfhristian nation’s? regulated vice. 

Old; Sal atai survives, still haunts dives and begs 
and screams tOf the mocking echo of empty beer 
kegs. 

She is to be found in our cities. Here she wan- 
ders, ragged, unkempt, barefoot, her thin, grey 
locks fanning in the night wind, unloved, and un- 
protected' by that Christian nation that takes its 
blood stained revenue and cries, “DEBAUCH OUR 
MOTHERS, IF YOU WILL.” 

Percy is in prison. If any person wishes to be- 
come acquainted with Percy let that person make 
a careful tour of any state penitentiary. Here he 
will find poor Percy. 

• Pinlegs is also in prison, and in the same prison 
with Percy, but the chances are that he will be out 
years first. He understands this, for be it remem- 
bered Pinlegs is a “gizzard”! 

The bishop and the Colonel are with us yet, re- 
minding us from time to time of Ephraim of old. 

They are men of large mental caliber, profound 
learning, fine moral sensibilities, men who loath 
and detest sin and men who have well defined 
opinions. 

These opinions are consistent with their profes- 


172 the MARTYR; 

sions and their learning, and' are embodied in many*: 

resolutions and much preaching. , , v 

These opinions are crystallized by a * process... of: 
going through a ballot box in to a law Ucensing 
the liquor traffic, taking it intp^ full paytner.ship,. 
for so much a gallon. . 

Colonel Travik , still weeps bitter tears for .the 
fate of his only son; at the same time he holds his 
position as state chairman and is working with his 
might to continue in power the chosen men of a 
party which allows the process of legal damnation 
full sway. 

The bishop still advises and urges the ministry 
to “arise as a man” and use their influence against 
the “ungodly traffic,” at the same time giving his 
entire moral and political support to that man and 
that party which have done more for the extension 
and protection of the liquor traffic than has ever be- 
fore been done. 

A Christian nation is. being poisoned. The Chris- 
tian men of this Christian nation gag and squirm 
pitifully, but they swallow the dose. 

Why do the^ gag and squirm— and swallW the 
dose? Because they are trying to serve two mas- 
ters. 

“No man can serve two masters”, whether he be 
President or serf; whether he be saint or sinner; 


THE MARTYR. 


173 


“no man can serve two masters; for either he will 
hate the one and love the other; or else he will 
hold to the one and despise the other.” On the 
fine distinction of the “holding” and the “despis- 
ing” the destiny of the Republic hangs. 

roiiss 





THE END. 









- - X.'' ■ 

, -,v . V • 


' ’‘O '•■• 'H / vV'rJ'^ ' •■ ..^ 

A < ^ , •'• ' -lUtr ' , , W ..-T* 

^ • ' t • » . ^ ' • • • ^ ' « k f ^ ^ fl 

’ ■ » . ■' ■ : <^\ ' ■’■■■ '• 


\J» 




> ’» 


'• ’ • ». / 

. .vf ^ A ‘■-T 

r. - ' Xjf 9 • -r^ ^ ? 

• .i'i • , / ^ ^ 






.<•. i*’ 




■ * 'v ^ , 

V '■^' ' V. • '»*. 


4 






• 1 ^ :% • • • 




^ ^ ^ 


t 

\ r 


A 

V. • . •' > 

« N 

. A M ' 

V 




V 




4^ 




*s % 


F , * 

V > -•• 


> V ’ . 


» ^ % 


9 

.. • ( 




V. 




I * 




. • ' '.'^ .1 


; r 


« 

., .' '•‘T' 

-. ‘.i 


. ' ’.'••■ i^'/ •' 


.*% 


•• r' 


. y» 


3^ 


rjK 


"V:':r:'-;^v.v • 

^ •••». ' ■ ^ N . /y f 

**•.'** » 

• •» *' t 'V'.. . ;y* V •■ . • 

. ^ s' * 1 * , • kt. - . * . 


>,'>• 'r- 

- ' \ '.^iV- 




!i' 




5 V'**' # 'I,. ’ *''■ . •' *^ • • ^ ,.: A -. . . 

^V-''^'"'‘i>'.- * V '. . 

\% , V4l J * A^Oa I w V * * ' ^ ^ ' 'i « I « « 


• ->4 




V .^•* I’-Vl^ ‘ 

:-?'^.viy- -'i 

f ^ 




' ’!sr^ 


■ '* : a:- -'V,-' 


• ^ 





..f , - 


« 4 


V.-". 


*•♦ ,'-*• 


'!•> 






'). ■ i 

— I ^ I 

' > ■- .' V , 

. V y •/••.* 




>» 


H>- 


r . 




A . ■ %-,- ■ ■'- ■ ■ ^ '.-n- '■ 

'I'.'!", -1.. '''‘*-' V* ^ ■"* W ■'' -/ 

^ V : .•*. -r • ;; . ■ ‘^ • ' w •'''X 

I ^ , ■ • ‘ .t-‘ •■ \- ' ■ ► - 

• *• v- .- •• r •%' . . ‘ 






'-'v'/ ' 


* t 








T • » 





A "k 


\ 

iS '\ 




f'y. 


T. ^ 4 \ 


o' •■'•' %..» r •, , s i ' 

*1 t ^ . * V - \ , 


I 


<-• 

y. 

• • f 


w 


I 

* « « 





V 

|S 

.>■ .1 


4 


,1*1 r 

If •< 


1 ' 

'fl'l' jt'r2 


c» . 


> A 


4 . 


1 •. 

1 

\*'. . 

rr. ' 

< 

.yv ' ^ 

• 

♦A 



'J 


• « 




*', *• 

i ’ 


,v 


•\Tl 'r % 


\f' ■ 



. ^ ; 


. « ^ 

9' 




4 '-' 




• \ 


> J* i 


'Mi :,'"*^-'».',!,-v'^ 


4 





• A 

# 

r 

ft • 


y . .} 


J 4^ 


sy 


‘^*1 


f 1 


< < 


i 

. > 


X 



V ' \ X‘- 

■ V •*• 

. • . V\. /■ * ‘ ■- 

1 j if '•* 

. N 

X' 

. . . • . « ^ -X 

■ •- • ^ ' t-' i:."' ■-'■ ■ '■ ^ 

i •. 

■■■^'■fix'- '■'I '' -f 



^ i 


4 .' 


r 

t 

S 


At A 


y V ■ - <#! . " 

. ' .-: f> 4^' '‘‘44? ' 


/ . >•. 

^ ^ " » 4-T / 

- .-Xsftjf' 


^ ' f ,s'j»- ^ ‘ 

>, • -' ' r' 

• i ' X ■' 3 ' 

.-.1 ! /, ■?. V 

• Vt» . ' . 




.S ■’ ;• • / 

..yy * 

' ' ' - 


' ♦ > s 

i 


> 




/ 


* ' 'V 4 


< - 
> •' 

r 


i . • ' 

V '/ I 

1 4':, / 


•> * 




.• T» 


i w 


• - 'X 


".:v: , 


*'i • • *1 ^ 

':i^ ■■■; ', .' - 


. I 


J ^ 


. -K* i 


; j.' 

i 

I 


-K 


: 1 


‘ ^ ‘ T- ' '. ' ; ii' .X ■ • ' .' 




. ^ ^ 

4 • ' 

V^li 


.• .1 


> « 


' 


. .. J c 


S '* « 


•CV' 




-V., , A. • w , ‘••'•‘S'vX*^'*' ISm • *'> , ' ‘ ' 0'‘X. '''• ■ 

;JV^ v*; ,. ( •* . : -,,■ y, r.;.: „ 



- '•1 

-. 1 


■. 

•/ . ^ * 


\ 

% 


'i 

■A\ 


* f% 


I • 


. , . '/ '■ ' ■: 1 '- „ 

:■ x A <%. V y '- 





f 


I 



S • 





* ^ ^ «l ll 

'..'S^’l.'i 


• ii| 

V'\' 


V 


•\ 






I 


\ 


i 


4 





I 



* 


• ^ 4 


>■: 


i» ' 


•I •/ 




i 


V . f- 
« * « 


V ^ 

r> • 




'V- ^ 


. ' h 

» / s 

J • V ' 

« ^ 

- . - . . 

''14 


- •>^.v. 


. * > r ^ 


4 ■ 


.,v ; 


■ ^ . 


. y* 


N . 

'1 


•* <t 





* * '.'•^ 
S'*!* ^5*.y :< 

I . . .' . 'A 


I 



/ 





